


Goodbye Baby

by vodkabite



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alpha Nicole Haught, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - No Curse, Deep Emotional Tension, F/F, Heavy Angst, Indie Film Elements, Inspired by Into the Wild, Inspired by Leaving Las Vegas, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Omega Waverly Earp, Poet Nicole Haught, Suicidal Ideation, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, almost lovers, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-19 08:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16531412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkabite/pseuds/vodkabite
Summary: Everyone wants a happy ending to their story and for as long as Waverly can remember, that's all she ever wanted. So when Nicole Haught suddenly appears in Shorty's always in the same booth by the windows, she thought that maybe, just maybe she found what she was looking for.But things don't appear as they seem.Not every story needs to have a happy ending, but just an ending one can be happy with.





	Goodbye Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings are in the tags.
> 
> Reader Discretion Is Advised.
> 
> [Spotify link](https://open.spotify.com/user/vodkabite/playlist/1Zj6YD8UAtbOuZADBWLpj8?si=p7pnxYvrRkOcFR_KmCoTzA).

_“Shadows settle on the place, that you left_

_Our minds are troubled by the emptiness_

_Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time_

_From the perfect start to the finish line_

_And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones_

_'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs_

_Setting fire to our insides for fun_

_Collecting names of the lovers that went wrong_

_The lovers that went wrong.”_

 

 

 

Waverly takes the job because, honestly? She doesn’t have anything else to do.

She’s technically still enrolled into Ghost River University, so the title of student can be applied here. Although, all her classes are online, and she only ever visits the campus (which is 30 minutes away) to hand in her bi-monthly payments. Which are always late.

Bartending and waitressing at Shorty’s aren’t exactly what she had in mind when she turned twenty-three. Or twenty-two. Even twenty-one.

So, when Aunt Gus asks her (in that gruff but still warm voice that explains so much than the few words given) to fill for her during the annual Battle of Alberta—the Calgary Flames vs. the Edmonton Oilers, a rivalry as old as time and just as brutal—she immediately says yes without really thinking. Partly because she knows Gus doesn’t take off work often, and partly because this has more to do with bailing Wynonna out of the sheriff’s station. And maybe it has something to do with her brain performing skip-like stutters whenever the little bell over the front door rings and she sees the same ginger-haired woman standing in the middle of it.

Yeah, she’s not exactly all that great at making off-the-cuff decisions.

But the omega likes the alpha; always has since even before she learned that the redhead kept to this strange, unbreakable ritual of always appearing at Shorty’s at exactly 7:15 PM. There had been a mishap once; it was during the finals of the Canada West Football Conference, the University of Calgary vs. the University of British Columbia, a particularly memorable game that had everyone on the edge of their seats. The emotion in the bar swaying back and forth like a pendulum, dependent on whoever had the ball. But an hour into the nail bitingly frustrating game and the woman hadn’t appeared. It was only later, when Waverly was serving Ewan Allenbach and a few other firefighters that there had been an accident on the road over here.

Still, after all these months, close to a year, really, Waverly had never said a single word to the alpha. It’d be pretty easy to do (if she can control the clattering of her teeth and her wobbly knees to keep from looking like a fool); she walks up to her, and with a smile and a wave, they’ll strike up a conversation and the rest will be history. Something to reminisce fondly about later, if all went well; something to tell their kids if things went very well; or maybe something to cry about against Wynonna’s shoulder if nothing good every came from it.

All she needed to do was take the plunge and do it, it won’t seem scary afterwards.

Despite Purgatory being such a small town; the kind that gets left behind by the majority of the population and is only rediscovered when rebranded as a hidden gem—a travel destination meant to be found after several searches on Expedia, Kayak, Priceline and every other travel site online—the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, she only comes to learn the alpha’s name while doing some grocery shopping at the nearby market.

“That alpha you were talking about, the one with the red hair? I heard her names’ Nicole.” Olive Tattenhill had said in a hushed whisper to August Hamilton, two of the town’s biggest gossips. Which says a lot of about Waverly, the omega having melded herself into the dessert aisle to look as inconspicuous as possible while they passed through. Putting box after box into her cart until eventually, without paying attention, the entire cart is filled with boxes of donuts and cookies.

Her cover had been blown then. The only saving grace she could think of when Hamilton asked her, “are you alright?” was by saying “Yes, I… have low blood sugar.”

Of course, she had come up with another excuse once she got to the homestead, Gus questioning her up and down about why fifty dollars were spent on donuts and where on earth she came up with the idea of being hypoglycemic. Wynonna was just happy to see steal a few boxes for herself before being reminded of the “diet” she swore to complete as a resolution towards becoming a better person.

An embarrassing moment, truly. But Waverly took the sacrifice as it was, content on learning her mysterious redheaded alpha’s name. _Nicole._

Of Greek origin, it means “victory of the people” and it has evolved into a French feminine derivative of the masculine given name of Nicolas. As a surname, it originated in Netherlands where it was notable for its various branches, and association with status or influence, being a family name.

It is a beautiful name that rolls off the tongue easily, igniting images of a fabulous royal with a crown made of expensive jewels, or a rebel with a strong humanly drive and an even stronger heart. Of all the alphas Waverly has met, there’s something inherently different about this one. Deep down, past all the parts of her separating them by breed alone, there’s something there, alive and beating, each breath shaping the word _trust_ out of each puff of air.

Which might have something to do with how Nicole never joins in with the others when they make fools of themselves at the bar, or the way she keeps herself off to one side of the restaurant during the rush and never asking for so much as a refill on her coffee. As though she understands the blight that afflicts pink-collared workers, having to needlessly wait on patrons with a starchily fake smile for the most trivial things. That half smile, so genuine and pure, lobbed the brunette’s way whenever their gazes crossed paths. Never lasting for more than a few seconds.

Nicole is indescribable. Infinitely strange and confusing that, in the few times where the alpha deviates from her usual routine, Waverly learns something new and is forced to rethink every imaginary aspect she’s collected in her formation of Nicole—insert last name here—’s life. Her being. Her very immaterial existence. In one breath, she assumes the woman to be a hard working—insert fancy upper class career here—(she’s too _up there_ to just have a boring old job), and in the next, she finds the redhead curled up in the corner booth against the glass window writing in a leather-bound book.

And then, just when the clock strikes 7:15 again and Waverly’s already mapped out Nicole’s routine, it changes again!

Ordering a coffee before she’s even taken off her jacket, expensive looking material not unlike what is usually seen on tourists and folds from the city wanting to get away from awhile, curling up against the window and just sitting there. A booth all to herself. Staring outside.

Like she’s waiting for looking for something to happen. Something to change. Sometimes Waverly catches herself looking out the same window when no one’s around, wondering if she can place herself in Nicole’s shoes, in her steps, that she’ll finally understand.

Time passes, and she still doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

Nicole has been a little off, as of late. More so than usual, and that’s saying something.

Ever since their usual ice age-like winters came and went, the ice and snow covering the ground in a thick, impenetrable blanket finally thaws, the weather gets warmer. Steadily climbing upwards, and with it, so do the number of changes Waverly notices in the alpha. Which only becomes even more apparent when the clouds disperse and sunlight filters through Shorty’s windows, bathing the woman in a strange reveal. As if to expose her.

Waverly gets that there are some who come to Shorty’s with the idea of keeping to themselves despite sharing breathing space with several other people. Juan Carlos, the most unorthodox priest this side of Canada—known for his weird and enthusiastic brand of preaching, that hardened, yet completely understandable and flexible way of thinking that only millennials and progressive-leaners could relate to; in a town full of mostly older residents what saves him from being viewed as a pandering miscreant, is his very noticeable liking towards alcohol—comes by Shorty’s whenever there’s a game and instead of sitting at the bar or within the splash zone, he takes a seat in the corner.

Especially when he relapses and starts dipping into the communion wine again.

He’s a strange man, through and through. He doesn’t exactly fit into the stereotypical Purgatorian mold, but it works in his favor. There’s an aura about him that reminds everyone that _yes, I am human just like you, but please keep your distance._ Even when he’s sitting in the middle of a rowdy crowd yelling for better defense from their beloved basketball team, he melts perfectly into the throng of bodies brushing up against each other. Comfortably alone with the sounds of another’s heartbeat beating around him.

But Nicole (insert last name here) is different….

Waverly mentioned it to Wynonna once, during lunchtime on an unusually warm Saturday afternoon in March, the older Earp explaining her opinion on the whole “mysterious redhead” situation. For once, she was serious and very insightful, as much as she could be with a mustard smeared t-shirt and making a mess of the catalogue of bridesmaid dresses for Willa’s upcoming wedding.

“I like her, she’s smart to not get involved with the idiots in this town.”

 

* * *

 

It turns into a full-time thing without her really noticing. Watching Nicole as spring slowly crawls into position, mentally keeping track of all the little things she observes until the omega feels like she knows the woman. Knows her better than anyone in town. And while it fills with momentary glee, she knows it isn’t enough to just wait for 7:15 every time she has the night shift just to be the one at the bar in direct line of sight of the ginger-haired alpha.

There are days highlighted by how much Waverly wants to stupidly break protocol and walk up to Nicole. Sit in the booth opposite of her and just strike up the most inane conversation imaginable. Or maybe pretend she had been stricken with momentary amnesia and walks up to take Nicole’s order thinking she was in her section.

Either way, Waverly can’t decide what to do, so she doesn’t do anything and the night ends with her closing down Shorty’s and Nicole being gone before she calls out last bell.

Sometimes inaction is the safest option.

It’s certainly the most frustrating one.

 

* * *

 

Waverly doesn’t think other people see Nicole the way she does. People see the bright flaming red hair and the long springy limbs beneath dark colored clothing and those startingly warm honey-golden eyes and write her off as an anomaly. A stranger, with nothing to offer but provide a juicy topic a watercooler discussion and a dark spot in the usual mundane life that is Purgatory. But Waverly remembers the woman who’d gone out of her way to help a woman by the name of Kiersten Lesko, a traveler passing through, with holding the door open to the Shorty’s while she wheeled stroller through waiting for the next Bluntline bus. She remembers the Nicole who yells at the idiots that normally crowd around the pool table and tells them to shut up when their rambunctious behavior borders on careless recklessness, the one who isn’t afraid to stare Champ Hardy down until the beta is left cowering to preserve what little bit of manhood he has left, and the Nicole who’d jump into a fight and break it up if it was unfair or disrupting the peaceful calm of the restaurant as a whole; by any means necessary, whether through the use of her words, her penetrating stare or even her fists if need be.

Waverly seems to notice a lot of things other people don’t.

Maybe it’s just easier to see the big picture when you’re so used to orbiting almost silently around the outside, and there are a lot of things people miss if they’re too busy paying attention to the wrong thing. Things she reads off the faces everyone _but_ Nicole.

She sees the parental frustration on Gus and Curtis’ faces every time they look up and see Nicole in the same booth every day at 7:15 PM; the gnawing sadness whenever Nedley chats with the alpha when coming in for his usual fill of Canadian Molson, or the way Champ’s jaw will tick in angry jealousy when he spots Nicole from across the room. The tiniest loaded pause between them, the air goes still, the build before the spark ignites the inevitable explosion to follow. Waverly doesn’t understand how the alpha can invoke such a reaction out of people while still maintaining this shadowy, unknowable aura. Even after close to almost two years of being a legitimate resident in town.

There are nights where Nicole features as the starring attraction in the omega’s dreams. All bright lights and dark silhouettes; the alpha is still an enigma and Waverly resigns herself to the idea that Nicole will forever be this illusive specter meant to haunt her.

But mostly, Waverly notices the way Nicole stands off to the back, trying to blend in with the scenery in a futile attempt to hide; eyes roving over everyone like she’s looking for something, before shifting her gaze back to the window like nothing happened; almost saddened at what she doesn’t find. The slight frown that forms on her lips before calling for one of the waiters on duty (usually Robin or Levi since Waverly handles the bar) ask for the check, pay her bill and leave.

Or on the off chances she comes across the alpha outside of Shorty’s, just out and about in town. Always catching her from across the street, or across the aisles at the market, always walking in to the store just as Waverly’s walking out. For some strange and unseeable reason, they never on the same page. Never heading towards the same direction, only opposite. Waverly wonders if they’ll ever be on the same side. If their stars will ever align.

She wonders what she misses, by focusing solely on Nicole.

What she doesn’t know and what she can’t see, too awestruck with trying to figure the woman out. And maybe that’s as far as she’ll go.

 

* * *

 

Bartending at night sucks. There’s really no two ways about that.

Waitressing during the day has its perks; the restaurant is a lot quieter, the patrons that usually come in are far calmer, the overall atmosphere is easier to bear over long shift. But, it’s also incredibly boring and lackluster. There’s nothing there for Waverly to pass the time focusing on.

She wonders if it’s a homing instinct that all omegas have; telling her that there’s something about Nicole, something that equates to her natural desire to feel safe, protected.

Which is beyond strange. She isn’t looking for a relationship, not after getting out of a long-suffering relationship with Champ and going on a few dates with Perry that ultimately ended up with them wanting to remain as friends.

Wynonna might know. Or Gus. Or Curtis. Hell, Willa and her fiancé, Bobo, might have an idea.

She doesn’t ask them.

It doesn’t help that she’s spent her whole life anchoring herself with childhood memories of her father, her mother, her family. All those things they used to do together; the movie nights where they’d gather around as a family in the living room and watch an old horror film (the adults spending most of their time doing commentary while the girls curl up beside them) or the Saturdays when they’d make pizza from scratch and ended up eating most of the toppings first. The way her dad would give her a soft kiss to her temple and gently squeeze her shoulder every morning before work, the crinkled smile in her mother’s face every time she’d brush her hair and tell her stories of their youth. That same smile that ended up getting lost in the dirt they’d used to bury Ward and the first ticket she bought out of town. It works sometimes, as far as tamping down the depression and frustration goes, but she spends days afterwards feeling listless and bitter; aware that she’s just keeping old wounds open to spite the new ones.

She doesn’t use the other memories, the ones of angry fists punching walls and bellowing words, of screaming matches and frustratedly having to repeat the same lecture over and over again, finding the repetition more of a comfort than trying to drill into Wynonna’s head. Fingernails broken against her skin in an effort to keep tethered to the ground. Thoughts of pain and sadness always make her omega want to buck against her skin like it’s a separate thing altogether; like it wants to tear itself right out and leave her behind; like it isn’t an extension of her entire being.

She doesn’t ask about that either. It’s a little too obvious.

At least she doesn’t feel alone, anymore. Wynonna and Willa meet up with her once a week at Mrs. Tattenhill’s Ice Cream Shop; sometimes Bobo joins them in his long fur coats and thick black eyeliner, affectionately calling Waverly “angel” while he refers to Wynonna as any number of things under the sun. They get into arguments, much like prepubescent alpha children with knot envy, competing to see who’s was bigger; and sometimes they bond over muscle cars and motorcycles. Debating on whether a sports bike could ever hold a candle to a chopper.

Sometimes she hangs around Shorty’s afterhours, when last call had already rung and everyone’s getting ready to go home, chatting amicably with Curtis about his garden in the back of their house and the giant tomatoes he’s dutifully raising to win at the next fair, talking with Gus about everyone else and if her plans to move to Florida after retirement were still in stone. And if she still (jokingly) planned to leave her husband to marry a young cabana boy.

Waverly is beyond grateful for these occasional happy moments; for the chance to feel normal, content, and ultimately whole. It’s a good distraction from the fact that something’s missing. Something not familiar or vital to the overall quality of the life she’s built and lived all these years in Purgatory, but an essential aspect all the same; something she senses flickering between Wynonna and Doc from time to time; something that hangs in the air whenever Dolls and Eliza are side-eyeing each other from across the room during family functions. The same _something_ she can undoubtedly see every time Gus and Curtis cutely remind themselves of how in love they are after so many years of marriage; how Willa and Bobo are two sides of the same coin by the way they move, live, and breathe, in sync.

She doesn’t ask, and nobody is any wiser, but something in her still says _something is missing; find it, find it, you need to find it._

Waverly goes for runs; early in the morning when the sun forces the moon out of the sky and the lactic acid in her legs burn. Whether she’s on the hunt, or running away, is up for debate.

Nevertheless, she keeps going.

 

* * *

 

The day Nicole comes to her defense, looking like a white knight in shining armor with sword and shield at the ready; Waverly kind of loses her cool a little.

She’s in the middle of serving Lonnie, one of the deputies at the station, when Champ drags himself through the already agitated crowd to hang off the bar counter. He’s drunk, smells of weed and a repugnant hint of arrogance that drowns out the thick cologne he bathes in. The beta, as always, proceeds to remind Waverly that he’s a changed man and they’d ought to get back together, that he misses her; while in the same breath listing off all the ways her life would be so much better if he was her boyfriend. How the fashionably new crew cut he sports, the gold chain hanging around his neck and the expensive-looking sneakers on his feet are all a testament to how much he can improve the omega’s quality life.

After a hectic day, studying and writing a critical analysis on Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher; fending off Champ Hardy’s advances were the last thing she wanted to deal with. The energy in the restaurant is already charged from how the UFC 231 pay-per-view (at Scotiabank Arena in Toronto “without a single Canadian on the card” as Gus kept ranting about) was filled with everyone’s foreign favorites being decimated, this idiot was only fueling the fire. Lonnie, to his credit, tried to diffuse the situation before it escalated any further, but with the lack of an intimidating presence under his belt, Champ only continued.

And then the clock strikes 7:15, the bell above the door chimes, and everything goes fuzzy beneath the feeling of amped of aggression surging through like a bolt of lightning, swift and precise.

Waverly doesn’t even remember how it started, who threw the first punch or spat the first insult, it’s only once everyone’s stunned into a quiet silence and Champ is rendered immobile in headlock with his face pressed against the counter and Nicole’s arms, that she’s shaken by how close the alpha suddenly is. And then, right when Champ’s face reaches that perfect shade between conscious red and unconscious bluish-purple, Nicole lets him go.

The beta is coughs, sputtering whimpered cries of revenge as he crawls along the floor, scrambling from the alpha.

He’s gone in an instant and everything goes back to normal, somewhat.

“Are you alright, Waverly?” Champ may be gone, but Waverly’s body continues to vibrate. Shaken as she tries, and fails, to utter a single word from her mouth that is remotely coherent.

Nicole’s looks slightly confused, the realization that she had broken protocol, their unspoken rule. Whereas Waverly mentally launches herself into some complex theological hypothesis, still unabashedly staring at the alpha with her mouth slightly gaping open.

“Hey Waverly, can I get another bottle of Molson?” Lonnie interrupts, oblivious of their conversation. “Champ broke mine.”

The poor man retreats, swearing that he sees a red-eyed devil in the omega’s hard stare. “You know what it’s fine, it’s fine.”

Turning back towards Nicole, Waverly apologizes. “I am so sorry that you had to get involved, if we weren’t so packed today, I would have dealt with him quickly.”

The alpha shrugs, and even though she tries to smile it’s ruined by the deep, purple circles under her slightly pink and bloodshot eyes; a stark contrast to the way her clothes are impeccably clean and perfect or the swagger in every movement her body makes.

“It’s okay, you were clearly busy, and he tried to take advantage of that. Was he trying to get back together with you?” She asks and Waverly sighs, nodding her head in confirmation. Before jerking her head up.

“How’d you know about that?”

“People talk. You hear a lot of things you don’t want to when in the right places.”

“ _Great._ ” Waverly groans. Of all the things she imagined Nicole knew about her from the gossiping hens inside the chicken coop that is their town, being linked with her ex-boyfriend—the worst one, at that—was not what she wanted. She didn’t want to be linked to any of her previous partners, but if she had to genuinely pick who she’d prefer, it’d be Perry without a doubt. But with Champ being known to have drunken rants in front of anyone who would listen, she’s beyond fucked.

Damn that bastard.

“I’ve never believed any of it, at least not the ones about you.” Nicole says.

“Yeah?” She manages with a small smile of her own.

“You’re Waverly _Earp_ , right? Nicest girl in town?” At this, the brunette shyly tries to hide her face behind her hands. “You even won a sash.”

“All in the smile and wave.” To accentuate her point, Waverly does a small wave and even giggles.

She’s enjoying herself, more so on the fact that Nicole is here, in front of her, than anything else. Because after all this time, close to a year and half, maybe even more, Nicole is talking to her. They’re having a conversation in real life and not one that the brunette imagined in her head to mentally practice her lines. The ginger-haired woman is living, breathing, alive and present in front her; instead of the shadowy figure ghosting along the perimeter of Waverly’s life.

She doesn’t know what this means except that hearing the alpha’s velvet smooth voice surpasses everything she’s ever dreamed of.

Even when Gus comes around to make sure all the workers are doing their jobs, none of the patrons are acting up and really, just to see if how the fight card is progressing (only to return to the back, ranting about the lack of a Canadian in the main event; _“What is wrong with this country? Where are the Joe Doerksen’s and the Jason MacDonald’s?”_ ) Waverly is undeterred by the reminder of her station.

“Hey uh, while you’re at the bar, do you want anything?” Waverly asks, stepping aside to showcase the wall of beers as if they couldn’t already be seen behind her, given how small she is. “There’s Molson, Red Racer, Maudite, Péché Mortel—St-Ambroise Pumpkin Ale tastes good if you’re looking for something with a little spice.”

“Well, I’ve never been one to question a pretty girl.” Nicole winks. “I’ll take it.”

The sense of accomplishment hangs around for the rest of the night. Waverly goes to bed with a sleepy smile.

 

* * *

 

Nicole Haught—Waverly finally knows her last name—is a cloudless sky on a hot spring day, endearing and oh so rare. With that smile full of sunshine and promise.

She’s infectious and Waverly comes to learn this very quickly.

From the way her eyes will helplessly follow every single one of the alpha’s movements, no matter how small or inconsequential they are, to how she can’t help but stand a bit straighter when her phone vibrates in her back pocket, alarm quietly ringing beneath the clamor of the bar; a reminder set for 7:15 PM each night without fail. That little extra bounce in her step when the bell above the front door rings and she finds a familiar head full of red hair walking through it. Followed by that smile as their eyes immediately seek out each other’s before some random, faceless person passes through it and momentarily breaks off their connection.

Normally, as per house rules, it is required for the two employees currently assigned to the late shift to close up at the end of the night. But lately, with Nicole’s new solidifying presence, Waverly as taken upon herself to close up on her own; telling whoever is with her that they can leave as soon as last call to the bar is finished. And it may have something to do with wanting to end the night on good note by locking up and curling up on the opposite side of the alpha’s favorite booth by the window and just… _Talk._

She’ll fire up the cappuccino maker, or if they were looking to have a little fine, serve the beer of the week. Each time garnering a questioning remark and scrunched up face, “This is what everyone’s buying?” To which Waverly will respond with shaking her head and rolling her eyes, claiming that Nicole’s lack of taste in fine domestic brew is due to her American upbringing. Which gives way to a quick one-upmanship between the two until Nicole submits, opening the brown paper bag she brought in with puppy-like glee. “The beer here tastes funny, but I’d gladly admit to Tim Hortons being amazing.”

They do this several times a week without a fail; each night spent together in the soft dim lighting of Shorty’s, reveals something that couldn’t be seen before.

Nicole is so utterly controlled in her actions and words, to the point of irrepressible fascination; everything is precise and mechanical, nothing is done without a purpose. Yes, Waverly jumped the gun and assumed that the older woman probably suffered with OCD, but she is undoubtedly proven wrong when Malcom Ramaker, the resident optometrist, drunkenly bumps into her during happy hour and spills some of his beer on her shirt and apologized profusely by trying to help Nicole clean up—granted, the man did this five times that night, two of his apologies being wasted on inanimate objects—but she didn’t freak out.

Just, calmly laugh and helped Malcom to a chair. As though the break in control was a relief, lifting a weight off her shoulders.

During the quieter night shifts, usually when GRU is hosting a home game and all the sports fanatics in come out painted in the school’s red and black colors in support, Waverly takes the opportunity to man the counter and watch Nicole. Always in her booth, dutifully writing away in that leather-bound journal of hers.

Waverly watches her work with a kind of reverence that she doesn’t remember ever seeing in anything else; the way her hand never falters in its seamless glide across the ivory pages, the serene look on her face broken only by the occasional flicker of a smile as each stroke of her fountain pen creates another letter, another word, another aspect of this secret world no one other than herself is privy to.

There’s an unwavering sense of calm in watching her work peacefully amid the silence that surrounds them; she’s an artist, busy creating something amazing. A writer shaping the intricacies of a story with every line written upon the paper; she’s a poet painting on an ivory-colored canvas and with each brushstroke there’s something to be said, heard, seen and felt. Waverly wonders, as she puts down the empty shot glass she’s been washing clean for the hundredth time in a row, if there’s something she isn’t catching on to.

When the first day of spring falls upon them without that sixty-degree breeze cooling everything down and the last bit of winter’s snow is melted and gone, they go for a walk. The sky is a rich baby blue and there isn’t a cloud in sight, that sweet spot in the weather right before pollen season hits and ruins everything, God, it can’t be a more perfect day.

Nicole walks along the edge of the sidewalk.

As a kid, Waverly, and pretty much everyone else who had a childhood, did this. Arms outstretched from their bodies as they walked along the line to practice their balance or because they were bored of just walking. As she got older, the brunette paid witness to all the dumbass teenagers wanting to get famous off of doing stupid things, walking that fine line between life and death in front of a video camera, _for_ the video camera.

She remembers Wynonna getting her ass-chewed out by Gus and Sheriff Nedley for trying to do these insane stunts on her motorbike; the same neon yellow one she spent years saving up for and diligently caring for with weekly Saturday morning washes and self-handled tune ups. Riding up and down the roads and racing all the other wannabe bikers like Herman Tattenhill, Samuel Larson, Gary Smith, and her then boyfriend Jonas.

Only to be outdone when Mercedes Gardner throws a rager of a party during the spring break of their senior year and the alpha, in all her devil may care glory, jumps off the Blacksmith’s Bridge. A good friend at heart who only wanted to help and make an already _good_ party, into a _better_ one. Christening the change with a backflip off the railing to the chorus of drunken teenaged cheers.

Cheers that immediately dissolved into panic-stricken cries when Wynonna didn’t resurface quickly. Chaos broke out, some hightailing it out of there and others rushing down the side of the bridge and even jumping into the water to find her. After several hectic minutes, Doc and Dolls pull her out from under the water and Waverly was finally able to calm down.

Dazed and with a broken nose from hitting the water face first and in the wrong angle, Wynonna can only wipe the blood from her nose and ask, _“Did I look cool?”_

Nicole laughs, easy and melodic.

“Are you serious, right now? Holy shit, your sister is something else.” She says, as they cross the street. Hands casually shoved into the pockets of her jacket.

“Yeah, she really is.” Waverly replies, part of her smiling at the sudden imagery of both alphas in the same room. “I think you guys would be good together.” The idea of them meshing well like two longtime friends is impossible to ignore; they’d be inseparable. This, Waverly knows for a fact.

“Probably. It’d be a fun idea, you know? A poet and a beer swilling bounty hunter; would make for an awesome short story.” The sunshine just spills out of her; this magnetic want to want to be closer, to do anything remotely possible just to stay in her presence. To take all the pain and ash hiding behind those sleepless eyes and bury it underneath the earth.

To erase all the gloomy, cloudy days hanging overhead.

“Could you read me something? A poem, or maybe a passage?” Waverly asks, and with it, Nicole moves closer and further away from the edge of street. The omega almost reaches out and grabs her hand. _Almost._

“Sure, I’m not Shakespeare,” She shrugs. “So, don’t think expect anything life changing, okay?”

Waverly couldn’t think of anything more life changing than this, walking side by side, being given another glimpse into Nicole Haught’s oh so secret private life. Into her world.

Nicole clears her throat, pausing briefly to keep the omega hanging on with bated breath:

 

 

_“I played with your heart_

_And I could treat you better but I’m not that smart_

_You still mean everything to me_

_But I wanna be free_

_It’s difficult to move on_

_When nothing was right and nothing’s wrong_

_You still can’t look me in the eye_

_'Cause you’ve been bitten once and now you’re twice as shy”_

 

 

Waverly is awestruck, shaken to her core and is unable to hold Nicole’s gaze. She claps, unable to do anything more. “Wow… that was, that just… _wow._ ” Jesus, she wants to just laugh it off; her loss of words and the inability to not look like a complete idiot, but she can’t. Not with Nicole looking at her like that.

The alpha’s mouth quirks up, first one corner and then the other; slow and steady until it resembles a smile.

But it isn’t one.

More of a strange mix between prideful egotism and shy, humble modesty. All of it shrouded underneath a dark veneer of unshed sadness. As though she’s teetering on the edge of a cliff; dancing along that fine line and Waverly is undoubtedly caught within it. Whether she likes it or not.

But she knows it, sees it in the aura surrounding the alpha’s every movement, hears it in every word that comes out of her mouth.

“You okay there, Waves?” The brunette blinks, looking up at the older woman briefly feels like a punch to the gut.

“Yeah, yeah.”

She sounds vulnerable and that desire to convince—more so herself—Nicole that she’s alright. Okay with the small window into the alpha’s being, no matter how unnerved and confused she suddenly feels. They continue walking and as they walk down Main Street and step around the large puddles formed within the cracks on the sidewalk, the ripples that form across the surface reminds Waverly of those perilous minutes of Wynonna being trapped under.

Would Nicole do the same? Swim to the surface, or would she stay under until she floated back up? Waverly isn’t so sure.

 

* * *

 

In another life, Waverly could have been a doctor, a nurse, or even an EMT, anything in the medical profession, really.

Anything that involved getting her hands dirty and tending to someone’s wounds; she’s already desensitized to thought of removing bloodied bandages. Why not make a career out of it?

Of course, life isn’t that easy, though.

Wynonna is gritting her teeth hard enough that Waverly can hear them scraping against each other like falling rocks, the enamel gnashing and grinding together, her heart is beating way too quickly with the last bit of adrenaline pumping through her veins. Her knuckles are still bloodied and bruised; most likely broken from smashing them into Champ Hardy’s face and Herman Tattenhill’s cheek, the _snap_ of her fingers had become a blaring air siren for what was to follow next.

Part of this is Waverly’s fault, the brunette knows that. She should have been paying more attention to her sister, cutting her off once she started slurring through the alphabet. But Nicole come by, same time, same booth, same magnetic pull that left the omega reeling, unable to fully let her go. Of course, the only difference was when she ordered a peppermint schnapps (“because they taste like Christmas”), a purposeful change up in their usual routine that might have led to Wynonna arguing with Champ and Herman before ramming her elbow into their stomachs and landing the first punch, starting the fight that would eventually cause hundreds of dollars in damages.

The butterfly effect at its finest, and it’s all her fault.

And in unpredictable fashion, Nicole jumped into the fray as well.

“Ow, ow, ow, easy there babygirl,” Wynonna mutters from between lips pressed so tight they’re deathly white. “You’ve got to be tender, I’m hurt remember?”

“If you can’t handle it, then you shouldn’t have started the fight in the first place!” Waverly bites, voice sore and tired from yelling so much.

She sits on a stool next to her sister, meticulously disinfecting the cuts on her palm sustained from a broken bottle. Beside her Nicole quietly watches, unflinching and detached from the pain, able to still hold and finish a shot of whiskey.

“I had to, those assholes were too loud, and I couldn’t hear the game, they were already drunk when we started arguing.” The dark-haired woman says before turning to Nicole and raising her hand for a high-five, smiling. “I didn’t need the help Tater Haught, but thanks for the backup, anyways.”

“Don’t mention it.” Nicole replies with a half-smile, returning the high-five (a little slower than expected) before coughing and getting up and opening her wallet. But Waverly shakes her head and says no.

“You helped keep my sister from getting her ass handed to her, it’s on the house.”

Wynonna mutters a retort, but it dies on deaf ears as Waverly reaches out and grabs Nicole; fingers tightly gripping the sleeve of the redhead’s jacket. Omega determined to keep the alpha from leaving, not until she can check for any damage and apologize for being the one to so carelessly cause them.

“Look, I’m fine. Really, I am, I don’t need you to—”

“Just let me do this okay? You can go when I’m done.” She cuts in harshly, pulling and pushing Nicole back down to her stool with enough bite in her words to force the alpha into submission. The acrid scent of blood still caked on her knuckles only pushing her into overdrive.

“You know what? This calls for a celebration!” Wynonna grins, “I bet Gus still has that old bottle of scotch in the back.” The alpha hops over the bar counter and bolts to the back before Waverly can muster up words of protest.

With an indignant, rebellious roll of her eyes, Nicole stays. “You’re sister’s interesting.”

Waverly shakes her head as she takes Nicole’s right hand, the worst of the pair, “My oldest sister, Willa, is interesting, Wynonna is just lovably annoying and doesn’t know when to stay out of trouble.”

She takes a cotton ball, douses one side of it with rubbing alcohol, and applies it softly to the small cuts along the alpha’s knuckles. Surprised that the auburn-haired woman doesn’t flinch or yelp the way Wynonna did. Instead, she remains quiet. Honey-golden eyes lined with dark circles from a series of sleepless nights stare at Waverly’s hand intently; it is only when she narrows them that the omega gets a sense of pain from the woman. The sting reminding Waverly that Nicole is still human.

She imagines ropes or lines of webbing that connect them, strong and durable until a wave of black suddenly flows up into the veins of her hand, spidering along her forearm. It would steal her breath away, hitting her nerves with little jolts of electricity. There’s a buzz flowing through her bones, accompanied by the slow vibration suddenly centering in her chest; as though she can feel every ounce of pain swirling along the surface of Nicole’s existence. An outer layer protecting whatever lays beneath, now cracking.

Waverly flips Nicole’s hand over and starts applying a bandage, wrapping the cloth all around in tight circles. The alpha’s hands are soft, smooth, and only lightly marred by tonight and Waverly’s own negligence for not keeping track of her sister and the bar. Knowing fully well that whenever Wynonna and Champ are in close proximity of the other, nothing good can come from them. Yet, would tonight’s fight have even made a difference?

Her hand is bandaged perfectly, but Waverly doesn’t let go. At least not yet. She should, but she holds on and that reverberates around her skull, echoing in her ears to not let Nicole go. She stares at Nicole’s palm, running her fingertips over the cloth covered life and heartlines; back and forth, up and down until she’s shown another pathway to follow.

And she finds it.

Hiding underneath the cuff of her jacket, Waverly finds another line and is startled when Nicole clamps her hand down onto hers, effectively keeping her from seeing the scar she finds there. Nicole wants to go, _needs_ to go, but Waverly, as stubborn as she is, refuses to grant her that right.

For a moment, stunned into a frozen state, the omega gently pushes the alpha’s hand out of the way and pulls the sleeve back. Only to find a treasure trove of once brutally harsh marks crisscrossing over the inside of her wrist, now faded into a delicate shade of pink, barely a blush. But the sight remains the same, either way.

 

* * *

 

Waverly wakes up the next morning and the sunlight doesn’t feel the same.

To be honest, she doesn’t remember much of anything. But she’s on her slightly lumpy mattress (she needs to by another one) in her bedroom, staring at the ceiling; the vague lingering smell of paint fumes from where before there’d been the pungent scent of anxious confusion.

Downstairs, Wynonna’s sitting in their father’s old chair seated meticulously at a 90-degree angle for perfect television viewing, flipping through a People’s magazine with some scandalous looking actress on the cover; the headline detailing some industry rocking scandal that has everyone on the edge of their seats and her sister awkwardly holding up the flimsy book with her left hand while the right is wrapped around a cold can of beer.

She tries to sit up from her slumped position, but the pressure she puts on her arm causes the alpha to slip even lower into the chair. Yet, with all this, Wynonna is still observant as ever. Catching the omega trying to sneak her way out of the homestead. The image of angry red marks lined around pale wrists spots her vision like cigarette burns in old movies.

Damn it.

“Hey babygirl, you heading out?” Wynonna starts, twisting up on her good arm and bringing herself back up the chair.

“Yeah, yeah.” Waverly says, tone easy like this it’s a normal thing to want to get dressed and head out the door at 8:20 AM, to see her… _Her what?_ (What are they even?) “I’ll be back in an hour, just going to do some grocery shopping at the market.”

“Oh okay, want me to come with?” She asks, trying to bypass the obvious concerned written into her features, but is instead focused on wanting to know where she’s going. An amused smile playing on her lips like she knows.

Waverly shakes her head. Wynonna never wants to go grocery shopping, even if she’s the one makes a mile-long list of all the sweets she wants to be bought. “It’s fine, Wyn. Just stay here and relax.”

She winces at the pierced eyebrow shooting up in questioning disbelief; the thought that all of a sudden, the alpha can’t accompany her baby sister for a quick shopping trip hits a few delicate nerves. “I’m serious.” The brunette tries, but deep down, lying to her older sister (the one she’s closer and affectionate to the most) will come back to bite her in the ass.

Nevertheless, she gets another amused smile. “Alright fine, since going grocery shopping seems so important to you, mind getting some more of those cookies? But not the triple chocolate fudge ones, they weren’t sweet enough, you know?” Waverly tries to not roll her eyes and shakes her head, before agreeing.

“I’m in the mood for something sweet today, seems like I’m not the only one.” Waverly visibly flushes under Wynonna’s words; heading for the door so fast her feet barely touch the floor. Wynonna happily humming a song behind her, smug and proud.

Getting into her cherry red jeep, she peels out of the driveway of the homestead (careful not to knock into the still slanted mailbox that the alpha keeps putting off fixing) and speeding down the driveway. Keen on putting distance between herself and her less than tactful sister, but more than anything, to put space between herself and the thoughts had there.

It’s only been a few months since she had broken protocol with Nicole and they started talking to each other instead of sharing glances across the room, since the omega stopped tentatively tapping her fingers against the counter and wiping down the same cup hundreds of times while longingly wishing she could make use of her short thirty-minute breaks and talk to the alpha.

But after all the time that has passed since then, what now?

What are they? She tries to remember, to the best of her ability she tries to remember something that would give her a clear-cut answer; anything that could serve as definitive evidence that would support whether or not they were something. If they were indeed a relationship, one where she could happily apply the title of ‘couple’ to and be proud and overjoyed to the point that the amount of love in her heart spills out to the rest of her body.

And if they were just friends, then… okay! Okay. Granted, Waverly will have a hard time trying to come down to Nicole’s level of interest in their relationship, but she will do it. She will do it, no questions asked.

Waverly taps her fingers against the steering wheel, anxious and a little worried about what she’ll find when she arrives at Nicole’s house.

 

* * *

 

In hindsight, she felt something was wrong and should have acted sooner.

A stark contrast to the crystal blue sky, cloudless and pure (almost a periwinkle blue), with the sun shining bright and gentle breeze wrapping itself around the property, Waverly feels cold. As though stepping onto the driveway immediately starts a different scene and a filter falls over her eyes; the entire atmosphere darkens, and the same cloudless cloud is marred by the sudden appearance of a storm circling the two-story colonial house. The warm breeze billowing in from the north chills her bones and freezes her blood, and while there is more than enough proof within her own sudden apprehension, she isn’t pulled away.

Despite feeling nervous, anxious, having the prickling sensation that something bad is bound to happen and this is all a premonition warning of what was to come soon, she hops out of the jeep with a confident sigh. Omega already on the porch, impatiently padding around the wooden floorboards in a circle.

She shakes out the worry from her wrists as she walks up the creaky steps and stands at the alpha’s door. Tentatively, she knocks. For a quick second she suddenly regrets even coming here, worried about she’ll be received, and just when she’s about to turn around the door opens.

“Hi!” She says, because there’s really no other way she can come up with than a two-letter greeting that sounds horrible simple and effortless.

“Hey,” Nicole responds, with a tone that sounds a bit half-assed. As if she had been pulled away from something important and was forcing herself to play nice. “Did we have plans today?” Her eyes are small, sleepy, even in what little daylight comes through from this side of the house, their honey-gold color is still bright and illuminating. Despite the pink, glazed filter over them.

Maybe she shouldn’t have come.

“No, uh, I-I just came by to see if you wanted to hang out?” She says finally, fiddling with her thumbs and trying not to embarrass herself. More than what she already has. “B-But if you’re busy, or if you just don’t want to that’s okay.” Waverly finishes with a casual shrug of her shoulders, fingers through her hair and her cheeks burning red with humiliation as she spins around on her heel to leave. To run. But Nicole doesn’t let her go.

“Hey, uh, I just made some coffee…” Nicole suddenly says. It isn’t much, but it warms Waverly’s chest and she lets out a quiet relieved sigh.

The brunette has never stepped foot inside Nicole’s house, having only heard little insignificant details from the alpha’s mouth and random offhand comments from Wynonna and Gus whenever they pass by it on their way to town. Made of hardwood floors, walls painted in different shades of blue (from hale navy to winter sky and granite peak), each one complimenting each other perfectly, crown molding along the edges and corners, the furniture itself lending to the more traditional with a slightly modern feel, is place around with the intention of accentuating the amount of space there is.

“You have a very lovely home.” Nicole responds with a gruff thank you, her voice is some low mix of sad and angry, body vibrating with some unrecognizable distressing emotion that Waverly can’t put her finger on.

She can’t let it go, not when she sits down at the kitchen table, takes off cardigan with as little to no noise as possible, and folds her hands together in her lap. Nicole’s back to her as the older woman serves her coffee in a thick white mug. French vanilla with a hint of caramel.

But the most striking feature, is the short-sleeved shirt the redhead wears; her wrists are uncovered as a result.

The marks on her wrists still pull Waverly in like moths to a flame; for no explainable reason, she just can’t seem to look away. Part of her wants to reach out and run her hands over the marred skin, trace each cut with her fingertips, brand every reason that caused them into the walls of her mind.

Instead, she brushes her fingertips over the side of the mug, running them over the handle to suppress the twitch for something else. Something more meaningful. Waverly notices that Nicole’s mouth is pinched at the corners, there’s a little furrow between her worn eyes that the brunette wants to smooth away with the pad of her thumb. There’s a chance she doesn’t even breathe as their fingers graze each other when Nicole sits down at the table; she even wishes she can ignore the spark that sets her skin ablaze when their knees barely brush against the other. However, she can’t help the number of yellow flags that wave in the shallows of her mind, warning her of something she has yet to see or hear. Goosebumps pebbling the sides of her arm as a cautionary reminder.

Her omega regards Nicole with a weary, untrustworthy glance; Waverly gnaws on her bottom lip and with the nail of her middle finger, picks at the cuticles on her thumb beneath the table. A nervous tick she had gotten rid of years ago.

“So, how are you feeling?” Waverly asks in a voice so soft, she isn’t sure if Nicole had heard her. “I-Is, um, is your hand okay?”

“It’s fine. Hurts to move my fingers sometimes.” The alpha says, and it comes out in a nonchalant manner that gives Waverly the impression, _she’s been in a fight before._ Images of Nicole getting into bar fights play across her mind like a video, all bloodied knuckles and split lips.

Waverly sips from her mug, hands clasped tightly around cup, more to keep her from satisfying the itch to reach out and hold the older woman’s hand only five inches away from her own; finding solace in the sharp heat emanating from the cup.

“That’s good, have you been icing it to bring the swelling down?”

“Look, I just don’t think this is working.” Nicole says, abrupt; springing upwards from her slouching position, rapid and fiery, a spark of adrenaline hitting that startles Waverly. “You—I, just… fucking hell, I’m not good at this. I’ve never had to do this before, okay?”

Nicole takes a sip from her cup, licks her lips, and runs the pad of her index finger along the rim, only to sigh and rub her palms flat against her sweatpants. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, or herself really and Waverly is left to map out what comes next. “Y-You’re just going to have to give a moment, because this, _this_ is not what I had planned. Everything was supposed to be simple, and easy a-and I then—”

Waverly grabs Nicole’s hand and doesn’t let go. Not when the alpha stares at their hands together in confusion, unable to comprehend and fully accept it. Nicole then looks away, snatching her hand away as if the omega’s touch had burned her, only to stare straight ahead, the kitchen sink and the cabinets above suddenly infinitely interesting.

“I-It’s got nothing to do with you. It doesn’t. I promise. Well, maybe a little, but can we just do something else?”

The plea burrows deep into all the soft, safe places Waverly doesn’t dare expose. To anyone. Every crack and splinter, each shattered piece left on the kitchen table finds a way to slip beneath her skin until they lay stuck beneath the surface. Festering like pins and needles and her omega, with its tail between its legs, whimpers at the discomfort. Quietly pawing at the side of her leg for a change.

“Wynonna’s doing fine.” She ends up saying, casually and soft. Thumb rubbing the back of Nicole’s hand before gliding lower.

“That’s good, did she wake up hungover?” Waverly shakes her head and Nicole smiles and mutters a small chuckle beneath her breath. “She knows how to handle her liquor, doesn’t she?”

“A little too well if you ask me.” The brunette says, thinking back to all the times Wynonna tried to gamble on her own tolerance for an extra couple of bucks. “It’s a bit of an Earp thing, a predisposition and natural liking to whiskey, bourbon and anything meant to burn a hole in our throats.”

“Explains why you guys are so tough.” Nicole replies. “Takes a special kind of person to rough it in a bar full of small-town rednecks on a near daily basis, especially if you’re behind the counter.”

Waverly shrugs her shoulders. Tending bar at night and waitressing during the day was never anything she found to be even remotely praise-worthy. Firefighters, police officers, doctors—now those are the occupations that deserve it. She’s just some small-town girl putting herself through college by serving coffee and the usual breakfast platter (of eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns and two slices of toast) in the morning, and glasses of beer the second the regular nightly heathens show up for happy hour. There is nothing, that she sees, that would constitute in receiving such reverence from the older woman. Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop the vibrating feeling in the center of her chest.

She can’t help but believe in the woman’s words.

She doesn’t know what to say, or do—when does she ever? Waverly Earp tries to always make the right choice, follow her mind so her heart wouldn’t lead her astray.

All she knows is to hold on tight and revel in the comfortability she finds in touching the usually physically stoic alpha. Getting up, finishing the French vanilla tasting coffee, Waverly finds themselves in this weird rhombus shape that would easily lend itself to a hug if Waverly dared herself to. But it doesn’t go anywhere, of course. Their relationship, as up in the air as it is, the omega couldn’t do it. Couldn’t imagine having to witness Nicole pulling away from her the way she did. Deep in her heart she knows, she couldn’t survive it.

There’s a change in Nicole. With the slightly better demeanor, Waverly is no longer distracted by the older woman smelling of frustration and the salt of either tears of sweat. Mixed in with something softer, warmer; almost like the donuts Aunt Gus and her mother Michelle used to bake on Sunday mornings; fresh out of the oven with vanilla icing drizzled on top, melting deliciously until the dusting of rainbow-colored sprinkles.

Waverly shudders as she breathes out. Inexplicably pulled towards the alpha as she’s lead into the living room. Fingers brushing up against each other’s, that same spark shooting through her veins like electricity. The omega wonders if Nicole can feel how fast Waverly’s heart is beating, strumming powerfully against her chest like a war drum. All this from the sides of their fingers barely grazing each other because touch is memorable. Touch is real.

“I, uh, I’ve got another poem, if you want to read it.” Nicole’s voice is small and unsure, shy even. Much like before.

Waverly smiles brightly. “I would love to.”

Nicole clears her throat, a rough noise that’s all choked vowels and no real words, and Waverly finally thinks that she’s a least somewhat closer to the truth that is Nicole Haught.

 

* * *

 

 

_I want to keep faith, but you're making it harder_

_(But it's killing me to love you)_

_I'm reaching out now but you're pulling me under_

_(But it's killing me to love you)_

_I give you my heart just to watch you waste it_

_(But it's killing me to love you)_

_And I can't let go when you still need saving_

 

 

* * *

For what is probably a long time (three months, two weeks and five days; but who’s counting?), their relationship is still undefined but there’s enough of a connection between them that the possibility of becoming something more feels like a tangible thing; like it’s only inevitable for them to cross that illusive threshold.

Wynonna’s made remarks on their ‘not-a-relationship’ relationship they have; asking questions about what they have in common, what they do and talk about after last call and Shorty’s emptied out. And true to Wynonna’s character, she asks her baby sister about their non-existent sex life. Which only conjures up a litany of consuming daydreams and wet dreams. They’ve come to a point where they, or at least Nicole, is perfectly fine with light hand holding and the urge for more is starting to wane on the omega’s ability to restrain herself and keep to the alpha’s pace.

That impulse to touch and be touched by the alpha gets ten times stronger when she starts to see just how _open_ Nicole’s expressions are, how she is consumed by this insatiable need to interact with the world around them through her hands alone. Christ, how her honey-golden eyes are ablaze with recognition and acknowledgement when her fingers trace over an object, over the lines of the omega’s palm when their hands slide together. Electricity crackling between them in earnest.

Sometimes it’s too quiet, she realizes, too still; the only heartbeats she can hear are Nicole’s and her own; like twin souls joining together to sing a duet only she can listen to as the air between them fills with silence in even the most crowded of places.

Waverly want to blush at that, the idea that somehow, they were meant to be is almost laughable. Considering all signs were pointing to the same conclusion but the omega wasn’t brave enough to examine. Not yet, at least.

For all the time they have spent together, she doesn’t really know what goes on in Nicole’s head. Sometimes she feels like the truth would hurt more than anything else.

Like now; there’s less than a foot of space between them, elbows so close she can feel the heat radiating off of the alpha as they lay sprawled together on a bed of wildflowers behind Nicole’s house. The sun sits directly overhead, filling their little circle with a glorious haze of sweet sunshine, the blades of grass that tickle her skin is soft, the flowers sway back and forth as the wind rustles through; any other person would have mowed everything down without a single care. But Nicole chose not to.

To desecrate such natural beauty for selfish reasons is an absolute travesty.

“How’s your philosophy class going?” Nicole asks, in a low and hushed tone that does nothing but make Waverly feel a little less awkward about being put on the spot, but desperately want to lean closer into the heat because she knows the alpha only asks out of genuine curiosity.

Nicole never does anything without explicit purpose.

Steady, and always so sure; by comparison Waverly is losing it. Whatever tenuous grip she’s had on her control is slowly slipping away between her fingers like water. A litany of _I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this,_ buzzes in her ear furiously, part of her can’t be this close and pretend that she’s okay, that she wants this against everything her heart begs for. Waverly doesn’t think she’d be able to get away if she tried.

They’re frozen together; entwined and just watching each other; there’s a pregnant pause hanging heavily in the air and Waverly sighs. The faint sheet of glass that separates them has never been more apparent than in the glow of the sun. Nicole’s eyes become wary, reluctant when Waverly outstretches her hand. The sudden motion alarms the alpha, and quietly, she beckons the older woman to understand.

Nicole seems to take a deep breath, and then she nods her head. Settling deeper into the earth as Waverly’s (shaking) fingers start the space between the woman’s sculpted brows, the staccato huff of Nicole’s breath is dancing across her palm, calm and easy. Eager to explore and learn, Waverly delicately runs her fingertips over every contour of the alpha’s face: her skin, white as snow despite the faint flush from having the omega so close, is smooth, soft, impeccable but the tiny scars she finds reveal a story. The slight, almost unnoticeable bump on the bridge of her nose tells Waverly Nicole had broken it several years ago; the cut splitting the right eyebrow was made from something sharp and deadly, not the result of attempt to get in on some fashionable fad; the dark circles underneath her eyes are from weeks’ worth of sleepless nights; hiding along her hairline are the fading imprints of stitches, blood had flown from the wound there in a small trickle once upon a time. Her lips, her plush, full lips, pink and perfect, Waverly runs the pad of her thumb over them, the bottom had been split in two several times in the past.

Nicole’s eyes flutter open, slow, dazed even, and Waverly thinks she leans in first, or maybe they both do; but suddenly the distance between them dwindles down to nothing and then… then their lips are pressing together. Soft and unsure, like it’s the first time either of them has ever kissed someone, ever shared something so intimate with another human being. Nevertheless, there is something undeniably real enough that something primal—something unexplainably raw and new—stirs deep down at her core and makes the omega brave enough to lean into it, to slide her hand across Nicole’s cheek and rest at the back of the older woman’s neck; grounded by the contact as much as she is thrown by it.

They separate with a quiet, wet noise that almost has a whimper fighting out of Waverly’s throat, and she swallows to bite it back. She can hear the sound of glass cracking against her ears.

Pulling back, all breath and warmth, Waverly stares at the alpha’s dazed eyes before she’s leaning in again.

The second kiss is no less gentle; harsher and rougher, more confident. Something thrilling and terrifying and captivatingly warm unfurls in the center of Waverly’s chest as Nicole’s tongue brushes over her lower lip. She gasps into the older woman’s mouth when a soft scrape of teeth sends sparks of electricity all along ends of her nerves, makes her toes curl up and the kiss slackened into a slightly sloppy mess that has them smiling and giggling. Like two young fourteen-year-olds who are nervous just as they are excited.

Nicole groans something fierce and animal from the back of her throat as she sits up and the hand she had been using to keep Waverly close grips the soft earth beneath them, nipping at the brunette’s lips, a chorus of fire sings through the omega’s chest at the pleasure mixed with pain, the unforgiving sting and the soothing tongue that follows.

Jesus, she’s never felt anything like this; Waverly is certain nothing will ever be enough. Ever hold a candle feeling the alpha against her skin; the rhythmical sound of her heartbeat pulsating under the pad of her thumb to notes of some unknown song. Repeating the same verses and bridges, waiting for Waverly to join in.

 

* * *

 

The next few weeks heading into Spring Break and the winding down of her courses are strange to say the least. Squashed together in a tangle of long limbs and too much body heat; kisses passing between them more often than words, or just breathing with their foreheads resting together and their fingers laced together at their sides—their little bubble of happiness and stillness they’ve made in the comfort of their lives away from everyone else. But, as Nicole’s voice becomes a low and unwavering stream of unfiltered philosophical thoughts and ideas aided by questions Waverly tries to answer as coherently as possible, there’s something wrong. A dark spot in the middle of everything that keeps Waverly from blissfully falling head first.

Waverly talks about how great her dad was; how loving her used to be; Willa’s upcoming wedding and Wynonna groaning until the cows come home about the horrid bridesmaid dress she’s being forced to wear. Everything she can think of that she’s never found the nerve to spill before and say aloud into the universe. Her fears about the future, whether she’ll set out to accomplish everything she dreamed of as a child or be doomed to stay in Purgatory for her entire life. Her voice stumbling at the idea of being over thirty and still shackled to the timeless whirlpool that is the Ghost River Triangle. But Nicole shakes her head in encouragement and murmurs reassuring words, pressing her lips to Waverly’s, to her forehead and even the tip of her nose as a promise, just enough to make the brunette laugh and drop her gaze to hide her blushing cheeks.

There’s so much heady lightness in the air, Waverly can feel herself floating; body bathing in the fading sunset and orange light streaming in through the half open blinds. Tethered by their jumbled legs, feet dangling off the edges of the bed as they lay together diagonally in a makeshift position that suits them just fine. The ceiling melts away, paint, boards, panels chipping away, and she can see the sky.

Orange and yellow blends into pink, violet and a dark purple, before the entire night sky is a deep wine color with a sea of stars shining bright like diamonds. Waverly floats higher in the dark, arms outstretched to get as close as possible and touch the vast galaxies that make up their universe and all the endless possibilities.

But like an anchor striking down the ocean floor, she stumbles back and is left stranded in the air. Nicole’s hand still holding hers; a fresh mark on her wrist.

 

* * *

 

Against her better judgement, Waverly not only wants, but _hopes,_ for something to change after that day. Maybe for something to throw a wrench in the comfortable lull of a routine they had fallen into; something to get her blood pumping, or remind her that she’s still flesh and bone, still human.

But nothing happens.

Sure, she and Nicole are… something now. Something so much more than just friends, the way Gus and Curtis smile like they’re watching something beautiful slowly unfold before them, Chrissy, Jeremy and the rest of her fellow employees at Shorty’s wanting to hound her during their thirty minute breaks about her ‘cute ginger alpha’, or the way Willa and Bobo go over their wedding but never speak and never comment on Nicole but always manage to smirk like they’ve known all along. Yet, being able to cross that threshold into a legitimate relationship still escapes her.

And then the glass shatters into a million pieces and Nicole can’t hide anymore.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t know how they got here; the front door was slightly opened (the latch behind it halfway between being fully in place and not), Waverly made herself known, everything was quiet, and once she walked up the stairs, she went into autodrive.

Her body still convulses slightly, fingers twitching every so often as the adrenaline slowly fades away. Nicole Haught; who smells like vanilla dipped donuts and Christmas morning; she smells like home and everything the omega wants from her future, lies between her spread legs on the shower floor. She’s numb; silent, cold and unmoving; and it stings like salt in a still-bleeding wound, making the empty pit behind her ribs whimper and her hands want to clench. The frigid water from the showerhead up above washes over them and she shivers beneath the stream, stroking the alpha’s drenched hair out of instinct and the need for repetition; fingers still buzzing from their vice-like hold on Nicole’s arms when pulling her through the hallway, from being shoved into Nicole’s mouth to force her to vomit up all the pills.

Waverly doesn’t know how long they’ve spent on the shower floor, drenched to the bone. Time has slowed to a stop and she relies on the feel of Nicole’s faint pulse to keep track. But after the seven hundredth beat she removes her thumb from the alpha’s neck and her hold weakens. Nicole’s near lifeless body starts to drift and with what little strength she has left in her, Waverly grabs a hold of the sleeve of her shirt.

The drain disappears, and water fills up the shower, pressed into the corner with the only the glass shower panel to keep her sane. Grounded to what’s left of the life she had slowly built up with Nicole in the past few months.

Nicole doesn’t say anything when she opens her eyes beyond the hurt groan from a fist full of sleeping pills and acid surging up her throat. She stays quiet. Waverly can’t bring herself to ask, to beg her why she would try to do this, too afraid of the answer she would receive in return. After a while, the water reaching past their necks and the brunette has to keep head high to stay above water, Nicole puts a hand to her face and sighs into her palm.

“I thought the door was locked… I should’ve gone back and made sure it was locked…”

 

* * *

 

They spend the next two weeks in silence.

There’s something desperate to it; something restless that can’t be burned off even with the extra miles spent running around the homestead’s property in the early morning or throwing herself into her studies for the upcoming finals or trying to slyly slip into every available shift at Shorty’s to keep her mind occupied. Having reverted back to the way things were before, she needs it. The adrenaline is long gone, her brain is stilted, and the world is going in slow motion. She spaces out often, tuning in and out of conversations and not being all together there to a point where others have begun to notice. And how could they not?

Her other half is nowhere to be seen.

Nicole still comes around Shorty’s at the same time as always, still orders the same cup of coffee in the morning with milk and four packets of sugar. To the two bottles of the favorite beer of the week, something that Waverly had introduced with a shy smile that Nicole stuck with. Quiet. Motionless. Watchful. Everything they had built and cultivated through weeks of spending time together, days where all they did was curl up together in a corner and let the world fall away around them.

“Is everything okay with you and Tater Haught?” Wynonna asks, the little nickname (among the many she’s come up with) she uses for the alpha pulls a small laugh out of Waverly.

“Everything’s fine Wyn,” she says, pinching the skin underneath her thigh to keep it together, “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

Wynonna isn’t convinced, deep-down she knows something’s up, but Waverly shakes her head and presses harder on the piece of skin bruising between her thumb and forefinger. Heart strumming rapidly.

They _almost_ collide into each other on several different occasions during their self-imposed sabbatical; two seconds of startled shock, followed by a minute dead silence and awkwardly shifting weight from one foot to the other. Casted in a dark gray filter, the honey-golden color of Nicole’s eyes are considerably dim; the dark circles, now known to be as much of a distinctive feature as her red hair, have lightened and she looks more… _here_. But the crooked, barely there smile hasn’t changed.

For hours on end Waverly will sit on the edge of her bed and stare at her phone, at the candid photo (somewhat candid) of Nicole she had taken at Moody’s Diner during one of the early mornings when they were admittedly attached at the hip and the omega was still blissfully unaware of all the red flags in the air. Her thumb would hover precariously over the screen, both sides of her mind tempting to either press down and call Nicole, or just lock the phone and throw it over her shoulder in a bid to forget about the alpha. At the end of the day, she can’t bear to be stuck in limbo and leaves her phone on the nightstand. Off.

Damn…

Lying back with her eyes fixed on the ceiling; nostrils flaring, memory drawing in the vanilla dipped scent of the alpha, Waverly whines deep in her throat as she lifts a hand to her forehead. Pressure drilling into the center, point blank between her brows.

“What were you thinking?” Waverly asks into the air, voice hoarse and bordering on breathless.

“What _are_ you thinking?” She asks again, instantly, hoping that maybe the universe and of it’s infinite possibilities would respond. Give her that illusive answer the world can’t.

“Did I do something wrong?” It almost sounds like she’s pleading. Pretty pathetically, as well. But what other option was there?

Waverly shivers from something that isn’t right in the night air.

Something missing.

Her omega sits beside the bed, cautious and slightly skittish in its movements. In all of Waverly’s twenty-three years of living, she’s never felt her omega feel so distant and out of place.

Not when her father died, not when her mother up and left with a duffel bag full of clothes at night and not a single word to her daughters, or even when she suffered through Willa’s harsh affectionless presence and Wynonna’s complete disregard to any and all forms of authority as a result; not even when they had to struggle through financial hardships and what was left of her family falling apart at the seams.

The three years of being emotionally and mentally drained from her relationship with Champ, and all of his asinine antics and never-ending stupidity. His constant cheating and half-assed apologies only piled onto the already imposing mountain of issues. Which only seemed to get bigger upon Wynonna’s constant arrests and Willa pulling away from the town as a whole, Gus and Curtis’ financial hardships bearing down on their backs.

For a while nothing seemed to be going right. The universe seemed to enjoy making a mockery of a normal life out of her own, laughing at her expense when being furious with Champ after finding out that he had been cheating on her with Stephanie Jones again only to then feel _sorry_ and _guilty_ for not being enough to keep him to herself; laughing at her expense when she falls asleep in class and is reprimanded by the professor; the pity when she fucks a perfectly good friendship with Perry by getting her lines crossed and dating him, only to breakup when she couldn’t continue trying to be the girlfriend he so rightfully deserved.

_And then Nicole showed up…_

Tall and magnetic, mysterious and unknowable. But now, now Waverly doesn’t know where to go from here and she’s stuck floating aimlessly in the air.

Ready for bed, a stroke of luck hits and she grabs her phone from the night stand and turns it on. She doesn’t expect much, but beneath the notifications of text messages from Chrissy, Jeremy and everyone else, she sees a message from Nicole.

 

* * *

 

They meet up at Moody’s Diner; it’s a fairly small establishment, only able to house at most forty people. Not the greatest of places, but surely one of the best Purgatory has to offer.

Waverly isn’t sure what to expect from this after close to three weeks without seeing the alpha; she puts on a big smile when she enters the diner and the little bell above the door lets Moody and his son, Dolls, know of her arrival. She gives them a quick, slightly awkward wave and sits in one of the empty booths by the windows. The table is a tiny bit wobbly, but the omega refuses to make a scene in the near empty diner by jumping to another booth. Not when Dolls watches her intently.

She knows Wynonna told him about her ‘situation’ with Nicole, frankly everyone knew just how quick Wynonna was to threaten bodily harm and then make good on that promise for things as small as sending dirty looks Waverly’s way. So, it’s no surprise the dark-haired alpha told Dolls and by proxy, the beta himself worried for her and had an issue with Nicole. And it’s ironic when you think of how great they would have gotten along; the brunette can see them in another life bonding over sports in a way Waverly never could.

The bell hanging over the front door rings as more people come into the diner. Familiar faces she’s seen around town, mostly grown adults weary and tired, looking to just sit at their usual spot and read the newspaper with a cup of coffee in front of them. She stares at her phone worriedly, the time reads 7:12 AM and she wonders if Nicole would call or text at the last minute and back out. Looking towards the counter again, she sees Dolls sitting sideways on a stool, reading from his phone and sipping from a mug—he probably won’t leave until Nicole shows up. Or doesn’t. Whichever one.

But when the bell rings, at exactly 7:15, she looks up to see the alpha walking through the door. Dressed in a dark blue hoodie, jeans and boots, Waverly has to bite the inside of her cheek. Shaking her head and running a hand through her hair, mouth going dry for a second, heart thrumming against her chest; Nicole looks so cool and Waverly would probably be swooning over her like some fifth grader finding their crush hot in the same pair of Chucks they’ve been wearing all year.

“Why do you always arrive at places at 7:15?” Waverly says by way of greeting, a little harsher than normal but they both knew this question was a long time coming.

There’s a small smile as Eliza Shapiro, one of the waitresses here, comes by with their menus. She’s a tall blonde with green eyes, very attractive, and in another life the woman could’ve been a model. The kind of woman that would look amazing at Nicole’s side.

She takes their orders—Nicole and Waverly already knowing what they want, keen to just get on with their long-awaited conversation—before leaving and promising to get them their drinks.

“Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravening wolves—Matthew, chapter seven, verse fifteen.”

“It’s amazing what you learn and question, growing up in a catholic school,” Nicole says. “You would think that take forty-five-minute theology classes and having to pray before every pledge of allegiance would bring you closer to God, right? That you would believe in the presence of a higher power just from studying a few parables.”

Waverly scratches at the inside of her wrist, unable to relate. The closest she had ever come to God was visiting church on Easter Sunday as a child only because Gus had mistakenly agreed to go at Juan Carlos request, thus roping in her parents and the girls to join her for two hours of hymns, sermons, and cheesy jokes that were so bad they were hilarious.

“I wouldn’t say that I’m an atheist, I do believe that there’s something out there greater than ourselves, but would I use that belief as the basis for a belief in God? No. It fits, but no.”

Tilting her head to the side, Waverly blinks. Not following the alpha’s train of thought.

“Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravening wolves,” she repeats. “Beware of the lies you tell yourself under the guise of self-betterment, the eventual truth will unhinge you.”

There’s a pause as Eliza comes back with their drinks. Orange juice for Waverly and coffee for Nicole, as always.

“The difference between you and me, Waverly, is that you want to experience more from the world; want to live the best life you possibly can.”

“Nicole…” Waverly doesn’t say anything more; heart audible wrenching.

“It’s fine, really, it is,” Nicole says, shifting position in her side of the booth, sipping from behind the rim of her mug; the nonchalant shrug of her shoulders aided by the impossibly casual tone of her voice when regarding such a sensitive topic. “I’ve accepted it, and I’m okay with the it.”

Waverly makes a sound that she’s pretty sure is a dry sob. “But you can’t, you just—” she starts, “What about the people you’re leaving behind?”

_What about me?_

“I’ve already made up my mind,” she says after a minute, then two minutes. “And I have for quite some time now. For years, really. I, I’m disenchanted with everything. You could show me a thousand and one things that this world has to offer, and I wouldn’t see it. I can’t see it. As you may have already guessed, that day you pulled me into the bathroom wasn’t the first time. I’ve tried many times before and have never been able to go through with it, something always interferes, like it’s too soon for me.”

“That’s the universe telling you to stop trying t-to off yourself,” Waverly hisses lowly as Eliza returns with breakfast. “Honestly, have you ever thought about, I don’t know, getting help?”

Nicole lets out a laugh, thanking the beta for her service in between chuckles, “Please, therapy is for people who need help getting to the solution of their problems. For people who need help being steered onto the right direction, not someone who knows where it is they’re going and how to get there. My only issue is that I’m always being kept from fulfilling my goal, always being stopped from doing what I want to do.” She mockingly looks to the ceiling, “Like is that so hard?”

“Just because you want something, doesn’t mean that it’s that you get it.” Waverly snaps, “We have laws, unwritten rules made by society, and just common decency to know that we are not afforded anything out of this world.”

The alpha nods in understanding and casually shrugs her shoulders, leaning forward for a moment. “True. But what if hanging from a tree will make me happy?”

Waverly chokes on her tea, burning the tip of her tongue and her lips. Grabbing the napkins from underneath her butter knife, beside her plate. She wipes the dribble off her chin, still tender from the burn, and the small droplets that had landed on the front of her shirt and the table. Refusing the older woman’s help in the process.

“I’m guessing you disapprove, then?” Nicole smirks, the knot in Waverly’s stomach grows tighter at the sight. Acid bubbling at the pit. “And that’s okay, I mean isn’t that the point of this meet-up? To discuss and debate?”

“Of course not!” Waverly bites indignantly. “The point of this meet-up was for you tell me where your head’s been at, and then—”

“What? _Fix me?”_ The alpha interrupts, “Baby, I can’t be fixed.”

“Nicole.”

“I always knew you were a spitfire,” Nicole says lightly, “But you can’t fool me, and just like that, you can’t stop me either. Now we can sit here and spend the next thirty to forty minutes pleasantly conversating while having breakfast.”

“How can you be so arrogant and glib, right now?”

Nicole holds the side of her bagel, and with the other hand, holds the knife over it. The sharpened tip hovering over the toasted bread with a level of stone-cold precision that leaves Waverly to wonder with disdain, just how many times the ginger-haired woman held a blade over her own skin.

“I’ve got nothing keeping me here.” Nicole says after a quiet pause.

The blade comes down with easily, a clean-cut separating both halves and the slightly clink of silver against the plate makes Waverly flinch.

She blinks at her. “So, why are you still here?” _Why did you come here after two weeks of absolutely no contact whatsoever? Why didn’t you just finish what Waverly had apparently “mistakenly interfered” in, it it’s so important?_ Nicole doesn’t say anything; a pregnant pause falls over them and hangs heavily in the air so thick that the omega’s ears become hypersensitive to everything around them. The sound of the cash register being opened for a purchase, the gruff grunt of Marty at the corner booth on the other end as he flips to another page in his newspaper, the buzzing of the neon ‘take out’ sign hanging over the window into the kitchen, the creak of the stool as Dolls gets up from the counter, the sound of her own blood rushing through her ears. Heartbeat pulsating.

“I didn’t want to leave things between us on a bad note, couldn’t go through with it if I did.”

 

* * *

 

 

_My feet are falling from the ground_

_Had my head up in the clouds so long_

_Down into the depths with fading light_

_Can't hold my breath for another_

_Can't hold my breath_

 

 

* * *

 

Nicole doesn’t tell them where they’re going. She had come to the homestead, days later, with this vague plan for their night and stubbornly refused to ask any of Waverly’s budding questions. Adamant to stay quiet and keep the plan as is, a surprise.

“Where are we going?” Waverly asks for what feels like the umpteenth time that night. But Nicole shakes her head, smiling brightly and turning up the volume on her radio. Drowning out the omega’s inquisition by belting out the lyrics to _Pocket of Sunshine_ by Natasha Beddingfield, until the brunette was forced to admit defeat by laughing and, eventually, singing along.

She sits with her back flat against the cushioned padding of the passenger’s seat. Her eyes suddenly running over the dashboard, the glove compartment and the entire interior of the well-kept car. Meticulously cleaned to a point that the brunette can still smell that new car smell. The chrome lining around the small air conditioning/heating vent in the corner on her side of the dashboard is pristine and immaculate, Waverly can see her own reflection within it. The glass windows are crystal clear, and as they pass through the Trans-Canada Highway on their way into the city, she traces over the tops of the many evergreens and the various clouds floating overhead. The orange flow of the sunset fading along the horizon.

Shifting in position, absently readjusting the seatbelt across her chest, she looks to the side view mirror outside the passenger’s door, before casting her gaze upwards to the rear-view mirror. The backseat just as barren as the stretch of road behind them. Until she’s distracted by a car that passes them for a quick second and suddenly, the backseat isn’t empty anymore.

Lined up, from tallest to shortest, oldest to youngest; three children (two girls and a boy) with bright eyes and even brighter smiles. Laughing and giggling among themselves; happy beyond comprehension in their own little bubble. The eldest two—the girl with the long flowing flaming red hair that puts Nicole’s to shame and the boy with the blonde hair and honey-golden eyes—bicker much like Wynonna and Willa have done all their lives while the youngest, the other girl who reminds Waverly so much of herself, shakes her head and runs a hand through her chestnut brown hair.

“Hey, Waves.”

She gasps, unintentional, startled by the sudden lack of movement; the Camaro is parked in a space in front of the wooden paneled walls of Calaway Park; Western Canada’s largest outdoor family amusement park, in Springbank. Two miles west of Calgary’s city limits. The spiraling tracks of the “Chaos,” and “Storm” roller coaster rides (the park’s two biggest attractions) standing tall for everyone to see. But not to be outdone by fan-favorite corkscrew roller coaster known as “The Vortex” and its many twists and turns, and the fifty-six-passenger swing ride known only as the “Dream Machine”.

“C’mon, we’re here.” Nicole grins.

The older woman unbuckles her seatbelt and gets out the car. Waverly, following her lead does the same, but not without another glance towards the back of the Camaro where the kids used to be. But they’re not there anymore and the omega sighs, unbuckling and getting out the car herself.

“Wyatt Earp was a famous gunslinger, right?” Nicole challenges, “Think you’ve got his legendary aim?”

“Naturally.”

“Prove it, in the arcade.”

 

* * *

 

They spend the next several weeks that follow in complete bliss; every single day had been filled with a different activity or two surrounded by the absolute assurance that nothing would come between them. That they are inexplicably meant to always be together, linked to one another like a pair of star-crossed lovers that can and _will_ withstand all the obstacles thrown their way because fate is all-knowing.

Waverly believed it too; she swears it on all that is holy and sacred to the atheistic (more agnostic really) Earp Family that worships alcohol and the long barrel of a ten-inch Winchester revolver as both gospel, that she fell for the idea; hook, line, and sinker. Because in her heart of hearts, down there, deep in the pit of her literature loving soul, the omega couldn’t help but believe that she was playing the starring role in her own real-life version of Romeo and Juliet. All that was missing was someone to direct them into a happier ending than Shakespeare’s.

Everything lines up perfectly and Waverly could honestly kick herself for not seeing it sooner. And much like how they were fated to finally talk to one another at the result of Champ’s asinine antics, she bites the inside of her cheek and what else their destiny foretells. Even as they spend the night at the nearby bowling alley owned by one of Doc’s friends, Stevie, the brunette absently stares at the pins and flinches every time a bowling ball ruthlessly blasts through them—or in Wynonna’s case, hits the gutter and the overhead scoreboard makes a mockery of her failure with flashing colors and sound effects.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The older woman growls, frustratedly huffing before spinning on her heel.

At the control desk she sees Nicole snickering, moving her fingers along the keyboard. Looking up, Wynonna’s name on the scoresheet had been changed to ‘Wyn Sux’. The name change was probably payback for Wynonna crashing their quiet date—it’s a date, and Waverly refuses to see it as anything but because doing so would just hurt too much—and bringing all of their rowdy friends along. Dolls and Chrissy’s new boyfriend, Ewan, are busy trying to score the most points, Doc’s with Bobo and Willa at the shoe-rental counter with Stevie behind it, Chrissy, Robin, Jeremy, Rosita and Mercedes are chatting up a storm, completely rapt with attention at whatever latest tidbit of gossip Mercedes gives.

Maybe using Romeo and Juliet as a comparison based on character roles was a bit much; fair Verona and the little bubble made by the three warring families of the Escalus, Capulet, Montague and all the other side characters, couldn’t even nearly compare to hers in Purgatory. Their date for two had turned into a party of thirteen.

A pleasant surprise. Especially as Wynonna and Nicole fight and wrestle over the control board. Growling and barking at each other like they’ve been best friends all their lives.

Whether she’d take on the role of Mercutio or Benvolio, Waverly knows for a fact that it wouldn’t matter, there is a natural inclination for the two alphas to be friends. To be on the same side, right or wrong.

In another life they would’ve been inseparable, the omega could easily see herself fighting over her sister for Nicole’s attention. But for the one they have now, Waverly will sorely and forever be, jealous of the space amassed between them. Wynonna, due to sheer coincidence and lack of time alone, isn’t in the blast zone.

And when it hits, she will still be able to salvage everything she’s built and loved in the past year.

 

* * *

 

There is something magical about films. Movies. The collection of moving pictures playing across a scene in sequence and pulling a certain emotion from a person’s chest, whether through intention or not. Waverly isn’t an avid film buff like Robin and Jeremy are, but when they make mention of Jonas Adamson putting up flyers around time about the start of the park committee’s annual movie festival season, she couldn’t pass up the chance to snag the brightly colorful paper off the nearest post and take it home.

As a child, Waverly never really found the movie festival to be all that exciting. For starters, it’s held outdoors and growing up as a teenager so used to the ‘out there’ antics of her older sisters—playing chicken with motorcycles and trains, drinking oneself into complete oblivion at Shorty’s, getting into fights with strippers at Pussywillows for the lack of showmanship and being a major impact player within the underground gambling ring that’s taken over the equally underground fight club no one talks about—sitting on a towel/blanket on the grass and watching a movie everyone’s already seen, doesn’t sound like a good use of her time.

But she’s older now; she knows now that the reason as to why the movie festival is so successful every year, besides advertising it’s open policy that welcomes everyone of all shapes and less than reputable backgrounds to come and spend their slightly tainted money, is that it’s somehow an attractive spot for couples. And to a certain extent, Waverly can see why. Lying on the grass, pressed up against your significant other for warmth under the chilly night air, eating popcorn and soda, watching a romantic movie on a giant fifty-two-foot-tall screen.

It takes everything that makes going to normal movie theatres appealing and takes out the annoying armrest in between and places it in a setting where seeing people with tangled limbs and shared breaths are not only normal in a public setting but expected.

Its why Champ brought them there in high school; granted, Waverly should have known all he wanted was to paw her skin and shove his beer and weed-laced tongue down her throat when he insisted that they keep to the back of the crowd. Fifteen minutes into watching the _Avengers_ and he was already getting handsy, even going as far as misaddressing the film as _Man of Steel_ and then being confused when Superman didn’t show up for the final fight.

Things were much better the second time around as a freshman in Ghost River with Perry. There, Perry, as adorably nervous as he was, went above and beyond to be as perfect of a boyfriend as he could be. Taking off his jean jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders, bringing food in a picnic basket, he even smiled as the pinnacle of his actions was being able to sneak a bottle of champagne past security. To which they laughed and cuddled up against each other while watching _Silver Linings Playbook._

She had a good time with Perry.

She managed to somewhat enjoy the movie once Champ got it into his head that she wasn’t going to let him practically dry hump her leg in public just because all the other kids in their class were pushing this idea of the festival being a prime hookup spot.

But Nicole? Jesus Christ, what’s there to say? Or even do and think for that matter, because for all the times to be tongue tied, it had to be now.

Harking back to the idea that yes, god or whatever supreme being up above and the universe as a whole is taking immense pleasure in having the brunette act and feel like a complete fool while she is powerless to stop it. Lying between the alpha’s splayed legs, back of her head resting on the older woman’s stomach, body melding against hers in a way that seems too natural to be true.

In front, the screen plays _It’s a Wonderful Life_ and while everyone is rapt with attention as George Bailey is taken through time to see how the little community of Bedford Falls, New York has been positively impacted by all the lives he’s touched and how much of a starkly different reality it would’ve been for everyone had he not existed altogether, thanks to his cute and comical guardian angel, Clarence Odbody.

All of this, because Bailey had contemplated suicide and was standing off the edge of a bridge before his angel appeared.

The image of him standing on the edge churns her stomach. Not because of what he was wanted to do, but because of the evident emptiness in his eyes that is only magnified by the 1946 film’s black and white coloring embracing the shadows of hopelessness. In comparison, Nicole would stare down at the waters below with a happiness that can’t be matched and Waverly retreats further into the alpha’s warmth. The quiet rise and fall of her stomach loosening the knots in the omega’s chest.

Looking up, she finds Nicole watching the movie with a sort of hollow fondness that has Waverly fiddling the cuff of the alpha’s jacket sleeve. The kind of half fondness where only a shallow, on the surface of appreciation that would border on fakeness shines through. But Waverly knows better. She knows that there is still a part of Nicole that can appreciate things for what they are, she just can’t emotionally invest in it fully the way everyone else can. The way Waverly can.

She can understand George Bailey’s plight and his journey from start to finish, she knows the message the film is telling without having to scratch her head and ask ‘wait, what did he say?’

She just can’t connect to it.

Like a television set with several misplaced cords, the signal is never right, the screen always covered in black and white static or colored bars; changing from channel to channel, input to input, until that tiny short fuse—that quick, second long flash of electricity before powering off—Nicole _is_ that short fuse. The flash that for some reason hasn’t ended as intended.

Waverly pinches the bridge of her nose and inhales deeply.

She exhales and shuts eyes tight to fight back the sting of tears. Looking up, she takes in Nicole’s neck and sees the faint ring of what was once a devastatingly harsh bruise from years ago that Waverly can only sadly assume to be rope burn. Closing her eyes, Waverly bites her lip to keep the sob that threatens to escape from leaving her lips. A tremor runs through her hand and Nicole…

Nicole slides her hand around hers.

 

* * *

 

Things in Shorty’s return to normal, or at least to the way they used to be.

Work behind the counter still becomes a little hectic once the lunch rush is over and happy hour starts, the usual patrons stumbling in, sitting in their usual seats. Excited for whatever sports game has ignited a fever amongst them. And just like how Malcom Ramaker continues to bump into tables and people, a group of alphas and betas continue to crowd around the pool tables on a nightly basis with pitches of beers being swung around carelessly, Nicole shows up at 7:15 PM on the dot. And not a second later.

But instead of sitting at her usual booth up against the window, she nabs the stool at the far end of the counter. Ordering a bottle of Molson for her troubles. With her is the usual brown bag from Tim Hortons’ and inside is a bag full of donuts. Vanilla dipped with sprinkles. Fresh out of the oven and still steaming even after the drive over here.

“Had to make to drive over the speed limit to get here,” Nicole says with a soft smile. “Just so the donuts wouldn’t get cold.” _So, your favorites would still be warm, just the way you like them._

“You didn’t have to do that,” Waverly gives her an appreciative look, thankful and beyond grateful that the alpha thought of her so much.

The ginger-haired woman casually shrugs her shoulders, “True, but then your eyes wouldn’t have lit up as they did right now.”

Waverly rolls her eyes. “You were doing so well, but then you ruined it.”

There’s that smug, cheeky little smirk; mischievous and sly, a window into what the alpha may have been as a teenager. Or even a child. Bright eyed and rebellious. The bane of every adult for miles.

The calm that follows is disquieting though.

As easy as the window opened, it closes all the same. Glass dark and cracked, broken into so many pieces. The image of an older redheaded woman is shrouded and unseeable; non-existent and empty. Waverly accepts the donut into her hands as the napkin beneath it is suddenly dotted with a stray tear.

 

* * *

 

Spring break melts into finals week without warning and Waverly is thrown head first into an endless study session punctuated by her nose deep into several textbooks and the pads of her fingers calloused with paper cuts.

Gus and Curtis understand and give her the next several nights off to study. It’s a needed break in routine, but as soon as the omega starts to miss the clamor of Shorty’s drunken patrons and the clink of shot glasses, and the little bell above the front door ringing like clockwork at the same time without fail, she hears a quiet knock against the glass of her bedroom window. Furrowing her brows and grabbing the nearest blunt object (a small trophy she had won in high school for her work on the debate team) and inches closer. Pulling the curtains apart and the blinds up—only to find Nicole outside of it.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“What? You’ve never snuck a boyfriend into the house like this before?” Obviously not, considered how Waverly was ready to club the alpha over the head thinking she was an intruder.

She opens the window to see the woman balancing herself on the balls of her feet atop of a thick tree branch. Going as far as to roughly put even more of her weight to test the branch’s strength to say _see? I’m fine, it’s all okay._ In a sudden panic, she shoves her hands out to grab the alpha. Afraid that the branch would suddenly break. Seeing her distress, Nicole laughs and stops joking around enough to actually hold Waverly’s hand and get inside her bedroom.

“What happened with just going through the front door like a normal person?”

“Eh, that’s too predictable. The window was a better choice, that or coming down the chimney like Santa Clause.” Nicole smirks, pulling off the straps of her backpack.

“It’s a bit early for Christmas.”

“Consider it early practice.” Nicole points to the bed, “May I?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Thanks.” The alpha sits on the bed and she wonders if the older woman can smell all the hopes and dreams she’s breathed into the sheets.

All the times she shamelessly slipped a hand beneath the waistband of her shorts in the dead of night. All the tears she’s cried solemnly into the sheets. She wonders if Nicole could catch the scent but would purposely choose to ignore it.

Nicole opens her backpack and pulls out several withered books that have seen some better days. Paperback, the spines are all creased to hell and the pages are an old dingy, dusty yellow, barely holding on by the seams. The hardcovers, while in slightly better condition, aren’t fairing much better. The flimsy book jackets are torn in the corners and marred by wrinkles themselves.

“What’s with all the books?” She asks, eyeing them curiously. Running the pads of her fingers over the cover of one. _Antony and Cleopatra_ by Shakespeare.

“Well, I figured I’d come by and help you study.” Nicole exclaims with a bright megawatt smile. “I mean, it beats just sitting here in your room by yourself, right?”

“Depends on whether or not we end up getting distracted.” Waverly replies pointedly. Slightly wincing at how harsh that sounded. But Nicole grins and grabs the first book from the pile she’s made on the beside her.

“How about this? You lay down next to me, and we go over some of the notes you’ve made. Most of the books I’ve brought have notes that could be pretty dated, but maybe high school me and all the bratty angst has something you can use?”

“High school?”

“Yeah, you’re not the only English nerd around here.” Nicole winks, blowing the dust out off the front cover of _The Bell Jar_ by Sylvia Plath.

Together they lay side by side, on the bed, pressed up against each other. Legs tangled together in a mess of limbs, Waverly’s head resting against the alpha’s chest as she listens quietly to all the critical thoughts and ideas a young fourteen-year-old Nicole who hated school like the average student but would happily walk into her English classes with an extra bounce in her steps.

The Nicole Haught who enjoyed reading classic literature and dissecting the messages within to as closely pick the brains of their authors as possible; wearing down the pages of the books until her fingerprints were littered all over from constant use. The same teenager who was known to get excited over the introduction of a new unit, just as her eyes would light up at the chance to skip out on school and spend her day behind the resident church smoking the thickest brand of cigarettes, she could get her hands on.

Same pierced-eared teenager with a bejeweled skull serving as a tongue ring who was a random _sure why not?_ moment away from inking the entirety of her arms for a whim; same teenager writing little snippets of whatever fantastical idea has come to her into the margins of all her notebooks.

 

* * *

 

Waverly passes all her courses with flying colors and while she would have loved to marinate in the celebration of the end of another semester, she grabs Nicole by the wrist and hauls her out into the rest of the sprawling property of the Earps’ estate. Complete with a basket full of a food she meticulously put together during the early hours of the morning.

It isn’t much. Compared to the time they spent behind Nicole’s house, there aren’t any wildflowers on the property, nor is the grass a vibrant shade of green. Not as romantic of a visual as she would have hoped, but the slight smile she sees on the alpha’s face is enough for her. To wash away the anxiety, at least for the moment.

“So, what’s the plan? Are you just going to surprise everyone, or you get all your affairs in order?” Waverly asks, staring at the small speck of dirty on the side of her sneakers.

Nicole makes a noncommittal grunt and leans back on her forearms, legs splayed out in front of her like she’s on a lounge chair at the beach. So unbelievably cool. “I’ve got most of my things in order. Thanks to my granddad’s inheritance, I was able to buy the house and the land it sits on. Made sure that when I’m gone it gets torn down as soon as possible and added to the Ghost River Triangle as a part of the nature conservation program.”

Nicole shrugs, and even though she tries to smile it’s kind of ruined by the deep, purple circles under her eyes (that have seemingly gotten darker somehow) and the unruly bedhead of hair that looks as purposeful as it does carelessly messy.

“I know you work or at least _worked_ as a freelance writer, what about your clients? Aren’t they going to miss you?” Her voice is too fast, full of way too much obvious fear, anxious to be having this conversation again.

“That’s the good thing about freelance work, clients come to me for help and I can turn them down if I want. No contracts, no attachments.”

Waverly wonders if that applied to them as well.

“And the people in your lives? I-I know that you aren’t going to change your mind, but, but do you know what you’re leaving behind? _Who_ you’re leaving behind?” Waverly asks, feeling her vision go blurry for a few moments before blinking it all away.

“Yeah, I do.” The alpha manages, still around a half smile as she runs a hand through her hair. Waverly doesn’t look any less confused. “But I have to do what I need to do to be happy.”

“At the expense of everyone else in the process?”

“I stay, and it’ll be the same thing either way.”

There’s a breeze and Nicole takes a deep breath, head tilting up to the sky with a dreamy smile. She lays back against the blanket and folds her hands together behind her head.

“Do you believe in soulmates, Waverly Earp?” Nicole asks, eyes still trained on the big blue sky and the many clouds that drift aimlessly through the air.

Waverly scratches the side of her neck. “Yeah, I mean, the concept of soulmates depends really on which version you choose to believe in.”

“There are the mechanical versions scientist like to use that we’re biologically built, right down to the building blocks of our cells, specifically made for another person.” Nicole says, “That love is as controlled as it is abstract.”

“According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts; condemning them to spend the rest of their lives in search of their halves.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

Waverly nods. “It, it’s just Greek mythology, but it sounds romantic and… and I like it. Makes it seem like there’s something out there, you know? As weird as it sounds.”

Nicole smiles softly. “I don’t think it sounds weird at all; the idea of being whole sounds perfect.”

“If it’s so perfect, then wouldn’t you want to stay and find your soulmate?” The omega asks. “See if they’re out there and finally be complete?”

“True, but good would it have done? Love can’t change everything and the longer I’m with them would just kill them. Can’t imagine putting them through that type of heartbreak.”

Waverly stays quiet. She looks to the sky herself, a patchwork of different colors blankets the sky as the sun sets lazily on the horizon. Night having already followed closely behind, stars peppering the sky.

Stars are big exploding balls of extremely hot gas, made of mostly hydrogen and helium. Eventually at the end of a star’s life, it will end up as a white dwarf, a low mass star. If the star is massive, it will eventually explode into a supernova, and if it is a star with a high mass, the core of it will form a neutron star. And if it is very massive, the core will turn into a blackhole.

Waverly never cared much for stars, the galaxy, or even the universe as a whole. She never found anything worthwhile in looking up and staring at the many stars that glitter across the night sky. She preferred her thoughts and dreams to float in the air, but still be tethered to the ground for stability. The brunette found comfort in feeling the solid earth beneath her feet and putting a name to every single emotion she felt.

Much easier to protect herself from heartache that way.

When she closes her eyes and lets herself drift away on the wave of a daydream, she finds herself floating in the middle of the ocean. But the water isn’t a crystal-clear blue meant to reflect the sky above, it’s blue _and_ black. And red. And yellow. And orange. And purple. And green.

The water is a colorful amalgamation of several different galaxies meshing together; stars sparkling majestically like diamonds all around her. Distorted by the momentary ripples along the surface, until they come back together in perfect form. Several of them shoot across her body daring her to make a wish.

And just as the planets move into formation and a wave of stardust washes over her, she’s pulled under.

The sun shines brightly behind everything, illuminating the quiet, peaceful darkness she sinks towards. The water races outward in a rush, bubbles form and pop like firecrackers against her skin, and in the haze, several different universes crash together in a fury. Each one more spellbinding than the last. From being in a wedding dress with a flower crown to reigning over her very own country as queen.

And in every universe, in some shape or form, she’s there with her rowdy, misfit friends and family. Her bright-eyed children, and a woman with startingly vibrant red hair and honey-golden eyes; the one true constant out of each and every one.

She’s happy there…

The water rushes forward again and then all of a sudden it moves backwards, the current taking the stars, and the planets, and the sun with it, until it recedes away into the nothingness no matter how much she holds tight and grabs a hold of as many pieces of the universe as she can for herself.

Cupping her hands together, Waverly manages to save a tiny piece of the world. A little something all to her own. The water shines like the sun, and in it, surrounded by stars, is a memory. Nicole and Waverly behind the alpha’s house, cloud watching on a bed of wildflowers.

The memory plays in its entirety like a video before it slips through her fingers and she’s forced back to reality. Where she and Nicole lay side by side, comfortably watching the sky aimlessly.

“Maybe,” Nicole raises her hands in the air as another rush of air sweeps through them again; gently touching the sky, the cloud and the sun. “Maybe in another universe, where things are different, _I’m_ different.”

_And we’re a little better._

Waverly raises a hand in the air, palm flat against the clouds, the endless sky and even the fading sun and all it’s warmth. The coolness of the moon and it’s light.

Maybe…

 

* * *

 

They crash into the kitchen with enough noise that Waverly is instantly glad they are the only ones in the entire house. Thank god Wynonna busied herself with hanging around Shorty’s with Doc and Dolls.

Nicole shifts from hesitant to confident in the span of an excitement-buzzed grin; and the omega manages to tuck all the sharp and jagged pieces of her anxiety beneath the surface of her skin just as she gets backed into the edge of the table. The alpha’s mouth parting hers; the slick pressure of a pink tongue against her own and quieting the muffled groans lost to the lack of space between them. Time going from a slow crawl to a frantic run as soon they get their hands slip from grasping each other’s clothes to skin.

The kiss somewhere between filthily needy to bizarrely tentative, and when Nicole leans back to look her over; her fair cheeks are a pretty pink blush lying atop of a heated red face with her usually messy hair sticking up in every direction like some wild animal; Waverly pulls her back in to start again, to do it all the same a million times over across a thousand different lives. And for once, the finite expiration date printed on the inside of the alpha’s wrist isn’t going to stand in the way of things.

_Not this time._

Waverly winds her arms around Nicole’s neck, hopping onto the kitchen counter and pulling the older woman into the space between her legs in one quick, fluid motion that takes her breath away. Every ounce of need thrumming in urgency that nears otherworldly levels as she feels a pair of cold hands on her hips.

“Baby, please…” She pleads, quiet but strong against the softness of Nicole’s cheek, the snap of her belt and the jingle of her noisy belt buckle opening rings in ears; she can see the little scrunch of Nicole’s brows and her fingers slip beneath the waistband of her panties (pale pink with baby blue polka dots, she would have changed to something sexier had she known), the elastic digging into her skin until she—

Her back arches against the squeaky wooden cabinets as she feels the first jolt of electricity; the pad of Nicole’s middle finger circling her clit with slow gentle strokes. Embarrassingly, her entire body twitches at the unfamiliar (frequently dreamt about) touch. Unable to full comprehend that yes, this was in fact not real and not the result of some vivid fever dream.

She feels Nicole smirk against her skin, redoubling her efforts, and circling the sensitive bud faster before Waverly flattens her palms against the older woman’s chest, and pushes. _Don’t tease me._ With a quiet sigh and a nod of understanding, Nicole moves her hand lower, deeper into the brunette’s warmth. Gasping when she reaches the apex of the omega’s quivering thighs.

Helpless, Waverly rests her head against the cabinet and lets Nicole’s free hand grip the back of right knee and push it back onto the counter, leg bent, knee beneath the underside of the wooden cupboards, until her heel plays a delicate balancing act on the edge of the sink. She shivers at the sudden rush of air over her exposed core, goosebumps rising along the surface of her skin as Nicole peels the offending garment from her hips and down her legs.

Everything happens in slow motion then.

Every slide of their lips slotting over each other’s in rough desperation, hands running over every single ounce of accessible skin until Waverly has had enough, and with a disgruntled huff, starts pulling at Nicole’s shirt until the top few buttons go flying across the room like bullets. A flood of want pours through her veins at the sight of a half-dressed Nicole Haught glowing in the dimly lit kitchen; pale skin bright and blinding under the harsh, cloudy sunlight streaming in through the windows. Only for the alpha to disappear from Waverly’s line of sight to a graceful fall to her knees.

Hips pulled forward, her body rests half on the edge of the counter with the majority of her weight placed solely on Nicole’s shoulders—the first lick against center leaving her mind blank, all thoughts on the other woman’s surprising strength gone with little more than a gluttonous moan.

Without hesitation, Nicole languidly licks at the omega’s slit, tongue flat and all consuming. Each stroke added with the tip swirling her clit into dangerous irregular shapes that pulls a litany of curses and whimpers from Waverly’s chest. She grips the worn edge of the counter until her knuckles are burning white hot against her tanned skin, splinters embedding themselves into her fingers like sharp needles pricking the carefully constructed bubble she surrounded herself in. Reality threatening to slither into the one memory she’d like to keep all to herself.

“Fuck, Nicole…” Waverly slips a hand into the alpha’s hair, nails scraping over the skin of her scalp until she’s gathered a good handful and pulls. The wiry muscles beneath Waverly’s left leg ripple deliciously with every flex and ravenous motion to bring them closer together. Tongue plunging into the depths of her wet folds, hellbent on shoving the omega off the edge.

After several teasing swirls of Nicole’s tongue against Waverly’s throbbing clit, a hiss is ripped from the brunette’s chest at the sudden feeling of two fingers sliding inside. Walls stretching delectably, she’s tight around the older woman’s fingers, clamping down in a vice-like grip that creates an array of stars to form behind her eyes like fireworks. Nicole shoots up from between Waverly’s leg like a rocket and Waverly pulls her in for a desperate kiss, feeling the heat in her veins starts to burn.

They go sloppy; pressed against each other on the edge of the counter in a rushed, and uncoordinated fashion that Nicole’s hand braces against the back wall beneath the cabinet and spills over a ceramic jar of sugar and cinnamon in her haste, while Waverly’s foot slips from the edge of sink and onto the opened door of the bottom cabinet holding the pots and pans. The sudden pressure on the wooden door unhinging it and falling away from beneath the sole of the brunette’s foot to hang awkwardly between the alpha’s legs. Nerve on fire as she grinds into Nicole’s into the heel of Nicole’s palm for that sweet, sweet friction on her clit as she breathes hotly against the older woman’s jaw. Nails digging unrestrained into the pale shoulders.

Waverly comes then; a quiet wanton moan as her body twitches like a livewire. The smell of sex hangs thickly in the air. Nicole brings her down from the high slowly, and Waverly, runs the pad of her fingers up the familiar set of shoulders, that delicate slender neck and up the woman’s cheek until her palms lay flat against either side of the alpha’s face.

“I-I, I love you…” She gasps, unintentional, the words spilling out of her like a long-kept secret; but Nicole’s fingers stutter through their gentle strokes and like a short fuse, all the blood drains from the alpha’s face and her eyes are darker than ever.

“Take it back.”

Waverly stares, her brows knitting together at the center in confusion until, until a cold rush of water floods her veins and she shakes her head in disbelief. Hot tears brimming at the corner of her eyes and when Nicole slips her hands away, the omega finally has feet planted firmly on the ground again, her fists start to pound against her chest. Hands stinging with every frustrated blow and Nicole’s refusal to put her own hands to defend herself. To even move her body to the side in an attempt to shield her chest from any more hits.

Waverly screams for a response, a reaction, something that shows her that Nicole is still here. Still alive, and breathing, and responsive, that there’s still something, whether it’d be magical or not— _something_ that tells her, there’s still a heart that wants to live even if it’s just for a little while longer.

Nicole pulls away, “I’m sorry.”

Waverly sinks to the floor and Nicole’s out the door.

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk for a while, perfectly content in the space and silence between them. Until there’s too much of it, even for Waverly.

Especially for Waverly.

Unlike their first self-imposed sabbatical from each other, Wynonna had taken to having a more pro-active approach in her role as an older sister (Waverly still thinks Wynonna’s sudden desire to know where she and Nicole stood, had as much to do with her over protectiveness as it does with their own friendship), Wynonna has been alternating between her standard ‘too cool for basic relationship stuff’ and what the omega would call genuine concern.

It’s the first time she had ever seen the alpha in such a nervous state, obviously worried for the ginger-haired woman who played the role of best friend better than anyone before her.

Waverly would only give Wynonna the bare minimum whenever she was asked about Nicole, and by extension, her relationship with the older woman. She couldn’t tell her everything, as much as she so desperately wanted to hell her (tell anyone for that matter), she couldn’t. Wynonna isn’t the type to handle things of this nature with delicacy, especially with her habit of internalizing everything and purposefully shouldering the blame without needing to. As a teenager, Waverly witnessed Wynonna’s downward spiral halfway through the madness thanks to Gus and Curtis.

She couldn’t bear to be the one who jumpstarts another one, it would kill her instantly.

Or whatever’s left of her.

May melts into June seamlessly. Shorty’s is still packed as ever, the fact that Ghost River University beat Edmonton University in a home game soccer match didn’t help either, everyone from the usual drunken patrons to the administration and soccer team itself pile into the bar in a sea of red and black jerseys and face paint; occasionally the crowd is swept away in a current of energy that begs for another three minute ‘Revenants Revenants Revenants’ chant that quickly overstayed it’s welcome as the night passed.

The way she would acutely listen for the little bell above the door to ring whenever someone was walking through it, her eyes instantly searching out for a direct line of sight to the bar’s entrance just for the chance she’d find a shock of messy red hair. Or even the familiar pair of honey-golden eyes, bloodshot beneath the tired glaze of sleepless nights, rimmed with dark circles. Even how she convinces Gus and Curtis to throw out Lou, Marty and Red for smoking their thick (probably illegal) cigars so as to keep the air clean for the possibility of catching the scent of vanilla dipped donuts, despite the cigar smoke having never bothered her before.

But as Waverly served up another order of Maudite, Nicole is nowhere to be seen.

She’d mentioned it to Juan Carlos once, and got some typical textbook response about everything in life being planned and God never making mistakes, nor does he take immense joy in seeing his own creations suffer while not actively intervening. The biggest take away from their quick conversation, one that was originally intended to talk about confirming the pastor doing ordaining the event, was that as much as she would want to change the future she can’t.

A bit too cynical for a servant of God, much less a pastor, to have such a point of view. After all, aren’t all of early Sunday morning sermons and endless list of parables in the bible mean to showcase God as a benevolent creator? At least the ones in the New Testament. The pastor himself being noted in saying that he preferred the New Testament to the Old, finding the latter to be more suited to a god-fearing discussion than something peaceful.

“The world isn’t as black and white as we would like, it’s gray, and in that we sometimes try to find the answers that would best comfort us.” Juan Carlos said. “And in not finding the answers we want, we try to change the questions instead.”

“So, then what? What’s the point?” Waverly tries, tired of being so used to orbiting almost silently around an issue.

“The point, Waverly, is that we must either adapt and accept what we cannot change or spend the rest of our lives fighting a losing battle.”

 

* * *

 

Waverly doesn’t know what she’s expecting when there’s a knock at her door in the middle of the afternoon.

Wynonna had left early with Doc and Dolls for some party being thrown by the Gardner Sisters, called a “Poker Spectacular”. Waverly has no idea what that even is beyond the idea that everyone involved will have to be dressed up in their fanciest clothes and come with pockets full of cash aimed to pretty much gamble the day away for some important benefit or cause.

The omega would have gone herself, but the thought of mixing her current state of mind and several glasses of expensive, imported champagne, didn’t sound too good. Despite Wynonna and Chrissy begging for her to join them in an attempt to get the brunette out of this “funk”, as they called it, Waverly stays home. Using the momentary silence to relax and think.

But as luck would have, the universe prime with making a mockery of the omega once again, she is forced get off the couch and open the door to find Nicole Haught standing on the other side.

Of course.

The woman didn’t have to waste her afternoon playing poker and filling her stomach with alcohol and hors d’oeuvres, to really gamble with her mental state.

Dressed in the usual pair of dark jeans, boots, and jacket, Nicole is still as beautiful and enigmatic as ever.

She seems lighter somehow. As if a large and insurmountable weight bearing down on her shoulders had been removed and she can finally breathe again. Her eyes are still marked by those purplish, bruise-like circles, but they don’t register with Waverly as easy as they did before. Something’s changed here, and Waverly can feel the knots in her stomach tighten again for the first time in a long time. She doesn’t know what’s happening and it terrifies her more than anything.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

They stare at each other for what seems like forever. She thought it would have been at least several more days, or even weeks, before the alpha reached out to her again. Or even before Waverly herself managed to scrounge up the courage to talk to Nicole. And yet, here they are. Inches away from each other, awkwardly staring and shifting weight from one foot to the other, just waiting for the other to speak again. To start talking and in turn they could eventually put the past behind them and continue looking towards the future. As solemn as it is.

Waverly opens her mouth to say something, but the words are caught in her throat and she can’t do it. She’s come so far from being the small omega on the other side of the bar counter, longingly pining after the mysterious ginger-haired alpha as she absently scrubbed and cleaned the same shot glass for hours on end. The same omega whose teeth would chatter uncontrollably, knees going wobbly with every step, sweat drenching her palms and crowning her forehead in anxious shyness to the mere thought of breaking their unspoken agreed upon rule. More often than not, Waverly would feel herself becoming faint whenever the opportunity presented itself.

But by the blind grace that is Champ Hardy’s unmatchable idiocy, they broke protocol. Nicole Haught suddenly becoming a much more graspable, obtainable, _human_ thing in her eyes. Every hyper imaginative fantasy of the alpha being an immaterial being she had no understanding of, had disappeared on the advent of their first genuine conversation.

_And look at us now…_

Nicole’s eyes are fixed to hers; gold slowly melting into a dark amber; Waverly’s nose flares at the scent of fresh vanilla dipped donuts and she feels that much powerless to stop the inevitable. The smell is branded so heavily into her memory that she’ll never forget it, even if she wanted to.

“Do you want to come in?” Waverly asks, her voice is suddenly hoarse, bordering on breathless.

“No, that’s okay. But thank you though.” Nicole returns instantly, and Waverly feels whatever half smile she forced upon her lips fall to the ground. Crashing loudly like glass breaking into pieces.

Waverly shivers.

“N-Nicole?” It’s barely a question, or even a sound. Just a soft, almost unintelligible whimper at this point.

Nicole dips her head, gulping down the large lump in her own throat. Picking her head back up she tries for a reassuring smile, but it falls flat, and Waverly can hear her heartbeat faster.

“I wanted to give you this,” Nicole hands over the box; its impossibly simple with no recognizable markings that would indicate there being any purpose for this sudden gift. Waverly takes it into her hands and stares at the top of the lid, as if doing so would give her all the answers she needed and all the explanations she’s looking for.

“What’s in it?”

“It’s just a little gift from me to you, I think you’ll like it.”

Waverly removes the lid and it’s just a couple of worn out books with paper stuffed around the edges like something out of some madman’s basement. She picks up one of the pages crumbled into oblivion and sees that there are words, lines really, handwritten, complete with proofreading marks.

“It’s not much, but I, I wanted you to have it and—” Nicole pauses for a minute, the first time the omega had ever seen the woman look so shy. “And I wanted to say thank you.”

The brunette tilts her head to the side. “Thank you and goodbye, baby.”

Nicole leans forward, a pang of guilt centers in the omega’s chest and as a result, she wants to back out. Blood rushing through her ears and her heartbeats a steady _no no no no no._ But Nicole continues, sensing the brunette’s discomfort she instead presses a kiss to her cheek.

It’s a simple kiss, soft and warm, the more modern version of a pink-swear.

It isn’t erotic, barely even romantic—Waverly trusts Nicole to not intentionally leave her a harsher impression than what has already been laid out before them, coldly written in stone. That their time together, as short and limited as it was, meant something. And now she has proof, blazing beneath her blush, the ghost of a kiss haunting her cheek.

_Thank you._

 

 

_I want you to know_

_That it doesn't matter_

_Where we take this road_

_Someone's gotta go_

_And I want you to know_

_You couldn't have loved me better_

_But I want you to move on_

_So I'm already gone_

**Author's Note:**

> The 'poems' here are all verses from various songs; in order of appearance:
> 
>   * _Youth_ by Daughter
>   * _I'm A Ruin_ by Marina and the Diamonds
>   * _Killing Me To Love You_ by Vancouver Sleep Clinic
>   * _Underwaterfall_ by Bearcubs
>   * _Already Gone _by Sleeping At Last (Kelly Clarkson Cover__
> 



End file.
